.  -..:    ,:  ,  •    .      -     • 


c// 

^  i7- 


/? 


By  the  same  Author. 

POKE  O'MOONSHINE.     i6mo,  cloth,  $i  oo. 

**  He  has  taken  some  of  the  more  romantic  legends  which  cluster 
about  the  valley  of  Lake  Champlain,  and  has  made  out  of  them  a  very 
teadable  poem,  poetic  in  conception,  vivid  in  imagination  and  picture, 
and  spirited  in  movement." — Advance. 

"  It  contains  some  fine  descriptions,  and  shows  a  thorough  apprecia 
tion  of  the  romance  of  Indian  life  generations  ago."— Eve.  Wisconsin. 


MIDSUMMER  DREAMS 


BY 


LATHAM  C.  STRONG 

AUTHOR    OF     U  CASTLE    WINDOWS,"     AND     u  POKE    o'    MOONSHINE. 


NEW  YORK 
G.    P.    PUTNAM'S    SONS 

l82  FIFTH  AVENUE 
1879. 


COPYRIGHT  BY 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS. 

1879. 


' 

.'      .       ..  •        ,    .  •  •  • 

.•••.••••.•:•  ,    r. 


TO 

MY     MOTHER 

WITH    FILIAL    REVERENCE,    FOND     AFFECTION, 
AND    TENDER    MEMORIES. 


912961 


CONTENTS. 


FLORETTE           .                                       ....  I 

THE  LITTLE   LADY  IN    WHITE    .  .  .  .II 

REMEMBRANCE             ......  l6 

THE  CHILDREN  OF    ROXBURGHSHIRE             .             .  l8 

IN  THE  DAYS  OF  LONG  AGO        ....  28 

WITCHERY          .....'..  31 

AT  SUNSET         .......  33 

ON   A  PICTURE    OF  VENICE    BY  MOONLIGHT           .  39 

A  NIGHT  IN   AN  OLD    ABBEY         ....  43 

DEJECTION -5° 

OUR  BRETON  BRIDE  53 

THE    BANSHEE              ......  55 

EVENING 57 

MY  LADY  SLEEPS 59 

ALL  IN  THE  CHRISTMAS-TIDE  6l 

THE  PASSING    SCENE             .....  66 

WHISPERS    OF    THE    ANGELS       ....  68 

MYSTERY 75 


ii  CONTENTS. 

THE   FEAST  OF  SAN  MARCO          .             .             ,             .  80 

AT  THE  OLD  HOME  ......  84 

THE  CHEYENNE    MASSACRE          ....  87 

THE  LAST   LETTER    ......  89 

POTS    OF    GOLD            ......  92 

AT   THE  CHURCHYARD  GATE      ....  IOI 

AN  INCIDENT  OF    THE   AUSTRIAN  REVIEW             .  104 

A  MIDSUMMER  DAY'S   DREAM     ....  109 

AT  LAST u^ 

ON   THE  CAMPUS U4 

AN   ANGEL'S  FLIGHT 118 

WHAT  IS  LIFE  .         .         .         .         .         .         .119 

THE  INQUISITION     .         .         .         .         .         .121 

EGLANTINE ^O 

INDIAN  SUMMER j^ 

A    FOREST    IDYL          ......  135 

REVERIE !42 

MY  PIPE  AND  I 145 

FLIRTATION      .......  149 

A  WATERING-PLACE  IDYL             ....  165 

TO  A  COQUETTE         ......  169 

WEST  POINT 172 


MIDSUMMER     DREAMS 


FLORETTE. 

JHEY  know  my  heroine  was  fair 

Because  such  memories  do  cling 
And  leave  their  impress  everywhere 
About  the  place  of  which  I  sing. — 
Shadow  and  sunshine  on  the  wall 
Are  flickering,  fading,  waving  low, 
Sunset-castles  aflame,  and  all 
The  green  sea-waters  in  a  glow  ! 
O  bonnie  birds  ye  sang  so  sweet 
Down  by  the  breeze-blown  yellow  wheat, 
And  by  the  brook,  where  tinkling  bells, 
And  silver  flutings  down  the  dells, 
Were  blending  in  such  merry  chime 
Through  all  that  golden  summer-time  ! 


:",  ; '-.';;  :     ,    FLORET TE. 

A  path  led  sea-ward  from  the  dell, 
And  from  the  little  cottage  old, 
Where  dwelt  Florette,  with  close,  and  fold 
Of  poplar  tree,  and  trough,  and  well 
Of  bubbling  water  trickling  down 
Gray  sand-stone  ledges  to  the  lane 
That  wound  to  yonder  sea-port  town. 
And  round  the  house  at  sight  of  rain, 
How  seemed  the  flowers  to  scamper  so, 
Each  one  a  little  prince  or  nun — 
And  then  at  times  to  curt'sy  low 
With  shy  hid  faces,  in  the  sun  ! 
And  o'er  the  porch  in  silken  sheen, 
The  vine-leaves  hung  and  swung  a  maze, 
In  mellow  shades  of  gold  and  green 
Aslant  the  floor  those  summer  days  ! 

She's  sleeping  well — my  poor  Florette— 
Alas,  the  little  maid  was  blind  ! 
Scarce  seven  summers  when  we  met 
Had  bowed  their  roses  in  the  wind, 
Or  filled  the  violets  with  dew. 


FLORETTE. 

Scarce  seven  summers  old,  and  you 
Would  have  so  loved  her  airy  grace, 
Her  gentle  heart,  and  winsome  face  ! 

'Twas  here  we  sat  in  days  of  rest, 
I,  curate  of  a  parish  old — 
And  she,  poor  lassie,  striving  best 
To  understand  the  tales  I  told 
Of  how  the  singing-birds  do  come 
And  build  their  homes  in  summer  trees, 
And  why  around  the  flowers  hum 
The  drowsy-droning  yellow  bees. 
Of  how  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
By  moonlight  in  the  quiet  dell, 
Of  seed-time,  and  of  harvesting, 
And  what  the  lonely  petrels  tell 
When  skimming  o'er  the  billow's  crest, 
And  gray  and  gloomy  grows  the  west. 
But  most  she  loved  to  hear  the  tales 
From  Scripture,  and  in  holy  eves 
Would  walk  with  me  through  quiet  vales 
And  listen  midst  the  warm  green  leaves 


FLORETTE. 

To  Jacob's  Dream  of  angels  bright, 

Star-browed,  and  lightly  floating  down 

The  ladder  in  the  dazzling  light 

Of  snow-white  wings,  and  shining  crown  ; 

Or  of  the  child  who  sagely  talked 

With  wisdom  more  than  man's  can  be  ; 

Or  of  the  Holy  One  who  walked 

Upon  the  waves  of  Galilee. 

And  so  through  many  a  pleasant  day, 

We  strolled  together  hand  in  hand, 

And  sailed  upon  the  sunny  bay, 

Or  wandered  down  the  firm  beach  sand. 


And  are  you  sleeping  gently  yet  ?— 
Or  do  you  see  the  kingdom  bright, 
The  lily  and  the  rose,  Florette, 
And  white  doves  flying  in  the  light? 
The  violet  trembles  on  thy  grave 
And  hides  its  face  in  sun  or  rain, 
The  birds  return  across  the  wave 
And  sing  of  thee  in  plaintive  strain  ! 


FLORET 'TE. 

Aye — she  was  timid  of  the  sea, 
When  it  upheld  its  voice  of  wrath, 
And  shrieked,  and  hurled  defiantly, 
Its  strength  across  her  sea-side  path. 
And  of  the  wind  when  overhead 
The  summer  thunders  rolled  across, 
That  seemed  to  her  like  legions  led 
By  Satan,  groaning  o'er  their  loss. 
But  ev'ry  morn,  come  sun  or  rain, 
With  dear  old  Gerald  sitting  there, 
(Poor  fellow  !  in  his  grief  and  pain, 
He  seldom  speaks  for  sheer  despair — ) 
Florette  would  seek  her  brother's  mill 
Across  the  sands  and  pasture  grass 
Where  high-tide  waters  rush  and  fill 
The  meadow-lands,  and  wild  morass, 
To  bring  each  day  his  noontime  fare. 
(Nay  Gerald,  courage,  strive  to  feel 
That  she  can  see  now  over  there  !) 
And  every  morn  with  gentle  face, 
She  used  to  pass  my  gate  and  say 
Some  pleasant  word  with  winning  grace, 


FLORETTE. 

And  wait  a  kiss,  and  trip  away 
Tugging  at  Gerald's  gaberdine, 
Across  the  salt-sea  meadows  green. 
And  so  it  was,  in  cloud  or  sun, 
Each  morn  along  the  reaching  sand, 
Out  from  the  town  of  Templeton, 
They  went  together  hand  in  hand. 

One  eve — it  seems  as  if  she  knew 

The  sorrow  of  that  dreadful  day — 

When  skies  were  all  aglow,  we  two 

Strolled  down  the  beach  of  yonder  bay 

Where  lay  a  yawl  upon  the  dune  ; 

And  sitting  in  the  rising  moon, 

She  clasped  her  hands  upon  my  knee, 

And  turned  a  pale,  sad  face,  and  told, 

Softly,  while  o'er  the  summer  sea 

The  music  of  the  waters  rolled, 

Her  dream  of  doves  so  seeming  bright, 

Like  snow,  she  thought,  that  round  her  flew  ; 

And  how  there  came  a  strange  white  light 

That,  floating  downward  through  the  blue, 


FLORET  TE. 

Approached  her,  when  she  saw,  amazed, 

A  crown  that  brightly  burned  and  blazed, 

With  all  the  glory  of  the  sky. 

"  And  do  the  angels  wear  a  crown, 

And  will  I  see  them  when  I  die  ? 

Oh,  often  when  I'm  lying  down, 

And  night  has  come,  as  people  say, 

And  all  is  dark  the  same  as  day, 

Around  me  angel  faces  seem 

Like  those,  you  know,  in  Jacob's  dream — 

But  last  night  one  stood  waiting  long 

With  lifted  hand,  and  smiling  gaze, 

While  far  away  I  heard  the  song 

They  sing  in  church  on  Sabbath  days  !  " 

(And  Gerald,  in  her  evening  prayer, 

She  prayed  that  you  might  meet  her  there 

Beyond  the  silence  where  the  skies 

Make  bright  the  shores  of  Paradise^] 

Then  came  a  day  of  parching  heat, 

The  very  sea  its  cry  forgot, 

The  gray  sands  glimmered  at  my  feet, 


FLORETTE. 

And  all  the  air  was  still  and  hot. 
Florette  had  started  for  the  mill 
Some  time  before,  and  up  the  hill 
Across  the  downs  I  faint  recall 
Two  fading  forms,  and  that  is  all. 
Then  to  the  rectory  I  turned 
While  all  the  sky  bright  yellow  burned, 
Save  one  long  line  of  gray  and  brown 
That  lay  along  the  western  sea  ; 
And  wearily  I  laid  me  down 
And  slumbered,  tossing  restlessly. 

I  woke  to  feel  the  cold  air  sweep 
Across  me  through  the  open  door — 
I  rose,  and  looked  upon  the  deep 
To  hear  the  wild  winds  rage,  and  roar, 
And  all  the  meadows  blind  with  rain. 
And  then  there  came  a  crackling  sound, 
And  wild  against  the  window-pane, 
The  tempest  beat  its  baffled  wings, 
And  once  I  thought  I  heard  a  cry 
Afar  off,  but  it  ceased,  and  then 


FLORET 'TE. 

It  faintly  seemed  to  come  again  ; 
While  deeply  rolled  across  the  sky 
The  tempest's  awful  mutterings. 
I  closed  the  door — and  darker  came 
The  clouds,  white-edged,  beyond  the  trees, 
And  then  a  blinding,  crashing  flame 
Rang  down  the  level  of  the  seas 
That  surged  like  weird  shapes  up  the  hill ! 
I  thought  of  her — my  poor  Florette — 
With  Gerald  waiting  at  the  mill, 
And  safely  housed  from  wind  and  wet, 
When  once  again  a  cry  of  pain- 
Then  sound  of  voices  far  below — 
And  from  the  window  through  the  rain, 
I  saw  men  running  to  and  fro 
Beside  the  flooded  meadow-lands. 
And  some  were  leaning  o'er  the  sands — 
And  then  I  thought  of  poor  Florette, 
And  dashing  madly  through  the  door, 
Down  where  the  gathering  crowd  had  met, 
I  found  her  dead  upon  the  shore  ! 


10  FLORETTE. 

Gerald  was  there — but  she  had  died — 
And  he  lay  senseless  at  her  side. 
Alas  her  fate  ! — the  strongest  arm 
Could  not  have  borne  her  safe  from  harm 
In  that  wild  flood.— 

They  laid  her  where 
The  Sabbath  music  thrills  the  air, 
Where  daisies  white  grow  wild  and  free — 
In  yonder  churchyard  by  the  sea. 


THE  LITTLE  LAD  Y  IN  WHITE. 


THE  LITTLE  LADY  IN  WHITE. 

'HE  sun  is  out,  and  the  rain  is  over, 

The  streets  are  bright  with  a  flood  of  gold, 
And  fancies   born  of  the  swinging  clover 
Come  up  again  as  they  came  of  old. 

In  tall  tree-towers  the  birds  are  singing, 
Burdened  and  bowed  are  the  fields  of  grain, 
Softly  the  village  bells  are  ringing, 
Slowly  the  cows  come  up  the  lane. 

Under  the  garden-hedge  the  spider 
Crosses  his  bridge  with  its  rain-drop  lamps, 
The  beetle  falls  where  the  path  grows  wider, 
Prone  on  his  back  in  the  web-spun  camps. 

A  mellow  glow  through  the  forest  clearing — 
Sinking  now  is  the  sun  to  rest — 
Like  a  silver  boat  in  the  blue  is  nearing 
Slowly  the  new  moon  towards  the  west. 


1 2  THE  LITTLE  LAD  Y  IN  WHITE. 

By  the  open  window  to-night  is  lying 
My  little  lady  robed  in  white, 
And  she  lifts  a  pale,  sad  face,  and  sighing, 
Longs  to  roam  in  the  meadows  bright. 

Black  bats  whir  in  the  white-rose  garden, 
Crickets  chant  in  the  meadows  nigh, 
The  owl  from  its  oak  like  a  watchful  warden, 
Stares  at  the  star  in  the  southern  sky. 

Tinkle  of  bells  in  the  rocky  ledges  ! 
Tumbling  the  waters  flash  and  flow — 
The  frogs  are  out  in  the  swamps  and  sedges, 
The  watch-dog's  bark  sounds  far  and  low. 

Fast  asleep  on  her  pillow  dreaming, 
Angel-voices  she  seems  to  hear 
And  snow-white  wings  in  the  starlight  gleaming, 
Flash  through  a  glistening  atmosphere. 

Now  she  skips  over  golden  meadows, 
Tossing  her  curls  in  the  fragrant  air, 
And  behind  the  crystal  rocks  like  shadows 
Hover  the  pixies  here  and  there. 


THE  LITTLE  LAD  Y  IN    WHITE, 

Up  in  a  mountain  a  bright  throng  listens 
Unto  the  song  to  the  rising  moon, 
Over  the  waters  a  city  glistens 
Like  diamond  skies  of  an  eve  in  June 

My  little  white-robed  lady  surely 
Fears  not  sprite,  or  bright-winged  fay, 
With  finger  upon  her  lip  demurely, 
Still  she  stands  where  the  pixies  play. 

Often  she  gazes  across  the  waters, 
Fretted  with  silver,  and  edged  with  gold, 
Often  she  watches  the  sea-bright  daughters 
Walking  so  still  in  the  waters  cold. 

Alas,  at  her  side  in  hat  and  feather, 
In  lace  and  satin  and  pointed  shoon, — 
His  milk-white  steed  is  pawing  the  heather- 
She  sees  the  Erl-king  against  the  moon  ! 

He  tells  of  a  beautiful  land  of  flowers, 
Of  children  that  stroll  by  the  shining  sea, 
Of  streets  of  pearl,  and  of  twinkling  towers, 
And  birds  that  sing  in  the  bended  tree. 


THE  LITTLE  LAD  Y  IN  WHITE. 

He  lifts  her  up  on  the  steed  that  bore  him — 
My  little  lady  robed  in  white- — 
And  over  the  rippling  waves  before  him, 
Dashes  away  through  the  dreamy  night. 

Over  the  twinkling  reach  of  waters, 

Gallops  the  steed  with  my  lady  fair, 

Below  in  the  depths  are  the  sea-bright  daughters 

With  outstretched  arms  and  with  streaming  hair. 

White  are  the  walls  of  the  city  yonder, 
Fair  as  the  realm  of  the  morning  star, 
And  she  lifts  her  eyes  with  a  look  of  wonder, 
And  voices  of  old  sound  faint  and  far. 

And  a  clear  blue  light  on  her  path  is  falling, 
And  all  the  gates  swing  wide  and  free, 
But  ever  she  lists  to  her  loved  ones  calling 
Sadly  over  the  silent  sea  ! 


THE  LITTLE  LADY  IN  WHITE.  15 

Morning  breaks  through  the  croft  of  beeches, 
The  pansy  pushes  its  hood  aside, 
And  peeps  at  the  sun,  and  across  the  reaches 
Of  meadow,  the  winding  waters  glide. 

But  the  birds  sing  low  with  hearts  forsaken, 
The  roses  are  bowed  with  a  weary  pain, 
For  my  lady  in  white  will  never  awaken, 
Nor  over  the  waters  return  again  ! 


1 6  REMEMBRA  NCR. 


REMEMBRANCE. 

[ONE  are  the  guests  from  the  banquet  hall, 

And  the  music  of  harp  and  flute 
That  thrilled  the  heart  of  the  passionate  rose 

In  the  garden,  is  hushed  and  mute. 
The  moonlight  falls  on  the  velvet  floor, 

And  the  wax-light  glare  is  fled, 
But  I  see  in  the  bloom  of  the  violet  light, 
The  ghosts  of  the  buried  dead. 

The  marble  statues  in  purple  seem 

To  shine  through  a  tremulous  mist, 
And  the  chandeliers  like  diamonds  change 

To  rose,  and  to  amethyst. 
And  phantoms  come  in  the  dreamy  glow, 

And  pass  me  with  tender  grace, 
With  averted  head,  and  with  tearful  eyes, 

But  at  times  with  a  lifted  face. 


REMEMBRANCE. 

One  by  one  through  the  arches  dim, 

They  glide  to  the  open  door, 
And  fade  away  where  the  moonlight  falls 

On  the  crimson-velvet  floor. 
And  I  lean  in  the  shade  of  the  ilex  here, 

With  a  heart  that  is  filled  with  woe, 
For  I  know  they  are  memories  pale  and  sad 

Of  the  silent  long  ago  ! 


1 8     THE    CHILDREN  OF  ROXBURGHSHIRE. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  ROXBURGHSHIRE, 

PROUD  heart  had  Sir  Wallace  Vaughn, 
The  sturdiest  clansman  of  all  his  peers  ; 
Full  seventy  summers  had  come  and  gone, 
And  now  he  had  reached  the  twilight-years. 
Into  his  deep-stained  windows  came 
The  purple  and  orange  of  sunset  flame 
In  a  shaft  of  light  on  the  oaken  floor  ; 
And  he  sat  in  his  quaint  old  Gothic  room 
Half  in  color,  and  half  in  gloom, 
With  his  deer-hound  dozing  beside  the  door. 
And  what  cared  he  for  court  or  crown, 
From  his  castle-turrets  his  bonnie  flag 
With  its  Wallace  plaid  looked  bravely  down 
Over  Cheviot  moor,  and  Eildon  crag, 
And  shook  a  menace  like  mailed  hands 
In  the  golden  breeze  to  the  border  lands  ! 
And  poor  old  Margery  bowed  with  age, 


THE    CHILDREN  OF  ROXBURGHSHIRE.     19 

With  the  castle-keys  at  her  apron  belt, 

What  cared  she  for  serf  or  page, 

Or  how  the  equerry-in-waiting  felt, 

As  she  mumbled  her  orders  and  hobbled  away 

From  the  room  of  her  master  old  and  gray, 

Like  herself,  but  still  at  seventy  year 

The  chief  of  his  clan  in  Roxburghshire  ! 

Twilight  crept  through  the  lonely  hall, 
And  the  battered  shield  on  the  gloomy  wall, 
The  crossed  swords  over  the  carven  door, 
The  tall  gold  vases  with  silver  wings, 
And  the  elk-skin  mat  on  the  polished  floor 
Changed  slowly  to  weird  and  eldritch  things. 
Then  the  old  man  rose  as  the  stars  looked  in, 
And  he  opened  the  door  to  the  owlet-glow 
Of  the  single  sconce,  and  the  merry  din 
Of  the  horse-boy's  song  in  the  courts  below. 
And  he  leaned  him  against  the  window  bars, 
And  he  bent  his  gaze  on  the  twilight  stars, 
Till  the  moon  came  up  above  the  brae, 
Till  he  saw  emerge  from  the  forest  dark 


20      THE  CHILDREN  OF  ROXBURGHSHIRE. 

A  monk  from  the  Abbey  of  Achray, 

And  cross  the  courtyard  through  the  park. 

Up  the  wide  winding  stairs  he  came, 

While  Margery  bustled  through  the  gloom 

Till  the  tapers  burned  with  a  snow-white  flame, 

Throughout  that  ancient  Gothic  room. 

And  now  the  twain  together  stood — 
The  monk  in  his  hermit  gown  and  hood, 
With  folded  arms,  and  with  bended  head, 
Pondered  the  words  that  the  old  chief  said, 
As  he  led  his  guest  in  the  ancient  hall 
With  its  triple  candelabra  tall, 
And  its  knights  in  armor  looking  down 
With  their  steel  teeth  set  in  a  sullen  frown. 

"You  have  heard," — he  said— "how  peaceful  toil 

Thrives  but  too  well  on  Scotland's  soil 

At  a  time  when  men  in  deadly  fray 

May  meet  at  the  pibroch's  sudden  call.— 

At  sight  of  their  little  bairns  at  play, 

At  woman's  tears,  and  childhood's  thrall, 

Listless  they  bide  with  unnerved  hand, 


THE  CPU LD REN~  OF  ROXBURGHSHIRE.     21 

The  buffet  of  a  brave  man's  brand. 

As  close  as  bees  in  the  clover  new, 

As  wild  as  the  birds  about  my  door, 

That  chatter  and  chirp  the  long  day  through, 

That  screech  and  call  over  heath  and  moor 

And  swarm  in  the  vines  of  the  castle  wall, 

And  hover  about  the  brake  and  mere, 

Are  the  bairns  of  my  clansmen  about  my  hall, 

And  throughout  the  braes  of  Roxburghshire. 

For  this  I  called  you  to  meet  me  here, 

That  you  herald  my  mandate  near  and  far, 

By  Hawick  town,  and  by  flowing  Tweed, 

Wherever  my  thrifty  clansmen  are, 

That  every  mither  and  bairn  proceed 

To  the  far-off  fortress  of  Achray, 

Nor  again  set  foot  on  fell  or  crag, 

Wherever  floats  the  Wallace  flag 

Till  such  a  season  as  I  shall  say !  " 


22       THE  CHILDREN  OF  ROXBURGHSHIRE. 


About  his  castle  in  Roxburghshire 
The  ivy  had  crept  for  many  a  year, 
And  many  an  oak  in  the  park  had  grown 
So  huge  that  its  age  was  scarcely  known. 
And  around  the  castle  the  children  played, 
And  thousands  of  birds  flew  out  and  in    . 
Through  leafy  courts  in  the  tremulous  shade 
Where  the  sun-gold  weavers  sit  and  spin. 

The  throstle,  the  jay,  and  the  mavis  brood 

Swarmed  in  the  vines,  or  swung  in  flight 

In  a  wave  of  melody  through  the  wood, 

Where  the  children  romped  through  the  gowan  white 

The  wrens  looked  out  from  their  peeping  nests, 

The  robins  folded  their  wings  and  sat 

On  the  castle  towers  in  garrulous  chat 

With  the  templar  mark  on  their  ruffled  breasts — 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  ROXBURGHSHIRE.       23 

And  bevies  of  black-birds  about  the  ground 

In  circle  would  stand  for  hours  sedate, 

Like  cowled  inquisitors  around 

Their  leader  discussing  affairs  of  state. 

And  the  bullfinch  after  a  few  sweet  words, 

Would  bow  to  his  fellows  on  either  side, 

And  squawk  his  contempt  of  other  birds 

Puffed  up  with  their  bold  conceit  and  pride. 

And  through  the  meadows  the  bairns  would  stray, 

With  rosy  cheeks  and  with  flaxen  hair, 

Skipping  and  tripping  here  and  there, 

And  their  feathered  friends  would  join  in  play, 

And  feed  from  their  hands  without  a  fear — 

So  tame  were  the  birds  of  Roxburghshire  ! 

The  banners  drooped  in  the  evening  breeze, 

The  moon  shone  clear,  through  the  summer  trees, 

Across  the  park  with  its  satin  sheen 

Of  poplar  groves  on  the  village  green. 

And  the  little  ones  were  gathered  all 

At  the  children's  May-night  festival. 

In  plume  and  plaid  neath  the  silver  glow 


24      THE  CHILDREN  OF  ROXBURGHSHIRE, 

The  winsome  shapes  moved  to  and  fro, 

And  never  did  moonlight  forest  ring 

From  Teviot's  scaurs  to  the  braes  of  Tyne, 

With  the  bonnie  cheer  of  such  gathering 

Since  Llynarch  sang  in  days  lang  syne. 

Lassies  with  golden  curls  and  fair 

As  fairies  that  sing  on  the  Caldon  Low, 

With  eyes  as  bright  as  the  throssle's  are, 

Danced  to  the  merry  music's  flow. 

And  lads  like  the  craggie  sprites  that  toss 

Their  caps  in  the  rocks  of  the  eerie  folks 

Laughingly  ran  in  their  glee  across 

The  wide  white  spaces  between  the  oaks. — 

But  above  at  the  castle  a  form  looked  down 

At  the  moonlight  scene  with  a  face  a-frown  ; 

And  it  muttered  a  curse  as  it  turned  away 

From  the  window,  at  sight  of  the  bairns  at  play. 

And  in  dreams  that  night,  Sir  Wallace  saw 

The  foemen  swarming  by  hill  and  glen, 

And  he  sprang  to  the  midst  of  the  fight  again 

Where  amid  his  clansmen  his  word  was  law. 

But  his  feet  were  bound  and  his  arm  was  stayed, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  ROXBURGHSHIRE.      2$ 

And  in  vain  he  lifted  his  trusty  blade, 

For  about  him  were  children  by  hundreds  massed, 

Who  tugged  at  his  kilt,  and  who  held  him  fast. 

Then  he  struck  them  down  in  their  places  dead, 

Till  his  strength  was  gone,  and  his  hands  were  red. 

And  their  death-cries  rang  in  his  startled  ear 

As  the  morning  broke  over  Roxburghshire  ! 

But  a  sad  procession  set  out  that  day 
To  the  convent  prison  of  old  Achray, 
And  fathers  wept — those  brave  old  men — 
For  the  ones  they  might  not  meet  again, 
And  the  little  bairns  with  their  lifted  hands 
At  thought  of  a'home  in  some  distant  lands     . 
Clung  sobbing  so  with  such  hopes  and  fears, 
That  it  filled  the  bravest  eyes  with  tears. 
And  men  looked  on  with  folded  arms, 
Who  never  had  felt  a  home's  sweet  charms  ; 
But  at  times  they  would  glance  at  the  castle  gate, 
And  grasp  tneir  swords  with  a  frown  of  hate, 
And  suppress  an  oath  that  grievous  morn 
With  a  flashing  eye,  and  a  smile  of  scorn. 


26 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  ROXBURGHSHIRE, 


Slowly  at  last  through  the  woods  below 

The  exiles  wound  on  their  weary  way, 

With  heavy  hearts  in  their  tearful  woe, 

And  little  they  said  that  words  could  say. 

But  scarcely  a  league  had  they  left  behind 

The  castle's  walls  with  its  banners  fair, 

Ere  they  heard  like  the  rush  of  a  mighty  wind 

The  whir  of  wings  in  the  morning  air. 

And  thousands  of  birds  in  a  cloud  came  down 

And  swarmed  like  bees  by  the  wayside  green  ; 

And  behind  as  far  as  the  distant  town, 

The  course  of  the  flying  birds  was  seen. 

They  came  and  fluttered  with  wings  outspread, 

And  swung  in  the  branches  overhead, 

And  chirped,  and  twittered,  and  led  the  way 

With  dainty  flights  from  spray  to  spray, 

In  royal  purple,  and  hermit  brown, 

In  scarlet  mantle,  and  golden  crown, 

They  warbled  the  sweetest  songs  they  knew, 

And  about  the  children's  pathway  flew, 

And  for  many  a  mile  they  sang  before, 

Till  they  came  at  last  to  the  convent  door. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  ROXBURGHSHIRE. 

And  years  rolled  by,  but  never  again 
Was  heard  their  music  in  wood  or  glen — 
And  to-day  round  the  castle's  crumbling  wall, 
The  hush  of  silence  is  over  all  ! 


28  IN  THE  DA  YS  OF  LONG  AGO. 


IN  THE  DAYS  OF    LONG  AGO. 

|O  you  remember,  darling  mine, 

When  of  old  we  roamed  together 
By  the  brook  that  rippled  on 
Through  the  foxglove  and  the  heather — 
Creamy  daisies  flecked  the  meadow, 
Sunset  skies  were  all  aglow, 
And  your  eyes  to  mine  were  lifted 
Gladly  in  that  long  ago  ? 

Oh,  the  years  that  since  have  faded, 
But  a  rainbow  spans  them  all, 
Though  the  cottage  with  the  woodbine 
Has  not  yet  become  a  hall. 
And  the  garden,  where  the  blossoms 
Pink  and  white  in  clusters  grow, 
Is  the  same  as  when  we  wandered 
Down  the  meadows  long  ago. 


IN  THE  DA  YS  OF  LONG  AGO. 

Standing  at  the  stile  together— 
Where  we  stood  in  old  lang  syne, — 
Looking  down  the  western  hillside, 
Do  you  sorrow,  darling  mine  ? 
True,  the  dear  familiar  faces 
That  our  fondest  visions  show, 
All  are  gone — but  we  shall  see  them 
As  we  saw  them  long  ago. 

Silver  gleams  among  your  tresses 
Do  not  change  your  gentle  face, 
And  the  dying  glow  of  sunset 
Fills  your  eyes  with  tender  grace. 
Like  the  full  moon  fuller  growing 
As  the  sun  is  sinking  low, 
Is  the  light  that  softly  lingers 
O'er  the  days  of  long  ago. 

Faith  uplifts  the  weary  spirit, 
All  the  strife  is  not  in  vain, 
And  our  sorrows  seem  to  brighten, 
As  the  sunshine  blends  with  rain. 


30  IN  THE  DA  YS  OF  LONG  AGO. 

For  across  the  twilight  waters 
Gates  of  pearl  are  bright  as  snow- 
Listen  !   do  you  hear  the  voices 
That  we  heard,  love,  long  ago  ? 


WITCHERY.  31 


WITCHERY. 

IAY-Belle,  Adrian,  and  Flo, 

Under  my  window  on  the  lawn, 
Out  where  the  white-starred  mignonette, 
The  rose,  the  pansy,  and  violet 
Are  sweet  with  dews  of  the  early  dawn, 
Romp  in  the  sunshine  to  and  fro, 
With  tossing  curls,  and  cheeks  aglow, 
Blue-cap,  Roseleaf,  and  Pigeon-feather, 
Under  my  window  all  together, 
May-Belle,  Adrian,  and  Flo  ! 

What  are  they  doing,  I  want  to  know 
Under  the  vine-leafed  portico, 
And  out  by  the  trees  of  the  garden  walk 
With  the  sunlight  flickering  under  ? 
Something  marvellous  to  be  told 
Unto  the  bees  with  their  packs  of  gold, 
That  stop  in  their  flight  to  hear  them  talk, 
With  a  sudden  buzz  of  wonder. 


32  WITCHERY. 

Dancing  around  the  willow  tree, 
They  are  the  laughing  witches  three, 
May-Belle,  Adrian,  and  Flo — 
And  the  birds  sit  round  in  groups  of  twos, 
Waiting  to  hear  some  wondrous  news 
That  only  the  bees  and  birds  will  know 
In  the  bright  midsummer  weather. 
And  all  the  place  grows  strangely  still — 
And  I  lean  and  listen  beside  the  sill. 
Till  at  last  the  birds  break  into  song, 
And  I  hear  the  laughter  loud  and  long 
Of  Blue-cap,  Roseleaf,  and  Pigeon-feather  ! 


AT  SUNSET.  33 


AT  SUNSET. 

JREATHE  delicate  blossoms  about  the  bier, 

Such  as  she  loved  in  the  long  ago, 
When  the  roses  bloomed,  and  the  birds  were  here, 
And  the  skies  were  bright  in  this  world  below. 

It  has  grown  so  dark,  since  she  left  my  side, 
But  alas,  I  know  I  am  growing  old  ; 
And  my  feeble  steps  I  can  scarcely  guide, 
And  somehow  the  sunshine  is  bleak  and  cold. 

Here  let  me  rest  in  this  easy  chair — 

It  was  her's  through  many  a  weary  day, 

Where  she  sometimes  sat,  when  the  days  were  fair, 

Watching  the  ships  come  up  the  bay. 

There  is  not  a  rose-bush,  or  shrub,  or  tree, 
In  the  garden  bowers,  now  chilled  with  grief, 


34  AT  SUNSET. 

That  has  not  some  memory,  sweet  to  me, 
With  its  fragrance  folded  in  bud  or  leaf. 

You  see  that  cluster  of  violets  blue  ? 
They  are  faded  now  in  their  ancient  vase — 
She  was  just  as  youthful  at  heart  as  you, 
Though  you  scarce  would  think  it  to  see  her  face. 

There  is  not  one  thing  in  the  homestead  old 
That  has  not  its  charm  of  the  days  that  were— 
The  work-box  yonder,  this  curtain's  fold, 
And  that  vase  of  flowers  seem  part  of  her. 

Full  fifty  summers  and  winters  gone, 

With    her    sunshine    presence  through    cloud    and 

gloom — 

Ah  me  !   it  is  dark  on  the  dreary  lawn, 
It  is  lone — so  lone — in  the  silent  room  ! 

You  pity  me  friend,  but  the  end  is  near — 
I  have  little  to  hope  for,  now  below— 
The  Reaper's  harvest  is  well  nigh  here. 
And  I  wait  with  patience  my  time  to  go. 


AT  SUNSET.  35 

Full  fifty  years  since  the  village  bells 
Rang  merrily  on  our  wedding-day — 
And  through  the  forest,  and  down  the  dells, 
How  cheerily  sang  the  birds  of  May  ! 

She  seemed  the  fairest  in  all  the  land — 
On  the  village  green  I  can  see  her  yet — 
Though  the  voice  is  silent,  and  cold  the  hand, 
She's  as  fair  to  me  as  when  first  we  met  ! 

Not  one  old  friend  of  my  youthful  day 
Remains  of  those  who  were  round  me  then — 
With  the  fleeting  years  they  have  passed  away, 
And  entered  that  country  beyond  our  ken. 

My  life  is  crushed  like  a  withered  stalk 

In  the  hands  of  Time,  and  my  strength  is  past, 

But  I  falter  on  in  my  feeble  walk, 

With  the  joyful  promise  of  rest  at  last. 

A  few  more  times  to  the  house  of  prayer, 
A  few  more  times  to  the  old  church  ground, 


36  AT  SUNSET, 

And  the  grass  will  blossom  above  me  there, 
And  the  world  forget,  and  the  years  roll  round. 

Ah  me  !  but  at  times  when  I  sit  alone, 
The  past  comes  back  with  a  tender  strain, 
As  of  Autumn  breezes  that  faintly  moan, 
As  of  waves  that  murmur  a  low  refrain. 

And  I  seem  to  wander  beside  the  mill, 
Where  of  old  I  toiled  with  such  willing  hands, 
Till  the  sun  sank  under  the  western  hill, 
And  the  moon  rose  over  the  summer  lands. 

And  often  I  seem  to  stroll  again 
On  the  village  street  in  the  sunset  rays 
Through  the  maple-boughs,  and  along  the  lane, 
By  the  meadow-brook  of  our  younger  days. 

And  the  roses  we  set  by  the  garden  wall 
Of  our  first  new  home  seem  strangely  near, 
And  the  sweet  young  face  that  I  oft  recall, 
And  the  songs  she  sang  that  I  sometimes  hear. 


AT  SUNSET.  37 

And  children  were  mine  to  kiss  and  hold — 
When  these  weak  withered  hands  were  strong — 
But  alas  !   they  are  dead — and  I  am  old — 
And  weary  and  worn,  and  the  days  are  long  ! 

By  yonder  path  through  the  forest  trees, 
At  the  edge  of  the  brook  we  loved  to  rove, 
With  the  clover  breath  on  the  summer  breeze, 
And  the  merry  music  of  birds  above. 

But  along  life's  pathway  were  thorn  and  flower, 
And  sometimes  the  clouds  were  black  with  rain, 
But  we  felt  that  soon  through  the  blinding  shower, 
The  sun  would  shine  in  our  hearts  again. 

We  fretted  not  at  the  ills  of  life, 
And  we  knew  that  the  past  was  beyond  recall, 
Our  hearts  grew  kindlier  for  the  strife, 
With  patient  feeling  for  one  and  all. 

Our  home  with  the  sunshine  of  peace  was  filled, 
Till  the  shadow  passed  the  threshold  o'er, 


3  AT  SUNSET. 

And  one  by  one,  as  the  good  Lord  willed, 
Our  loved  ones  crossed  to  a  brighter  shore. 

But  I'm  only  waiting  with  trustful  heart, 
And  low  bowed  head  for  the  call  at  last ; 
But  oft  to  my  poor  old  eyes  will  start 
The  tears  as  I  sadly  recall  the  past. 

Nay,  leave  me  alone  a  short  half-hour 
By  the  side  of  her  who  was  once  so  fair- 
Place  in  her  hand  the  geranium   flower, 
Smooth  back  the  tresses  of  silver  hair. 


VENICE  B  Y  MOONLIGHT.  39 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  VENICE  BY  MOON 
LIGHT. 

I  HE  music  of  flute  and  tambour 

Where  the  southern  moonbeams  fall, 
And  the  sweet  red  roses  clamber 
Over  the  garden  wall  ! 

In  the  glow  of  the  moonlight  tender 
O'er  its  liquid  miles  of  gold, 
In  her  stately  pride  and  splendor, 
Sits  Venice,  revealed  of  old. 

A  Venetian  throng  is  boating 
On  the  dark  blue  waves  aglow, 
And  I  hear  sweet  voices  floating 
From  the  twinkling  streets  below. 

Why  the  black-robed  Abbess  lingers 
On  the  staircase  do  you  ask, 


4°  VENICE  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

As  she  holds  with  trembling  fingers 
To  her  flashing  eyes  a  mask  ? 

Through  the  gloom  of  cypress  yonder, 
By  the  marble  balustrade, 
She  sees  two  lovers  wander 
Dreamily  in  the  shade. 

His  bending  plume  just  reaches 
Her  hair  with  its  one  white  rose, 
But  of  his  impassioned  speeches 
No  word  the  lips  disclose. 

And  the  Abbess  leans  to  listen 
Away  from  the  tell-tale  moon, 
And  the  hundred  lamps  that  glisten 
In  the  palace's  wide  saloon. 

But  I  hear  the  tinkling  tambour, 
As  I  stand  within  this  hall, 
With  its  tints  of  blue  and  amber, 
And  that  Rubens  on  the  wall. 


VENICE   BY  MOONLIGHT.  41 

But  I  know  this  picture's  meaning, 
For  it  cornes  in- dreams  at  night, 
When  softly  intervening 
Falls  a  molten-golden  light. 

In  one  of  their  quaint  old  churches, 

At  early  mass  they  met, 

Where  the  light  bloomed  through  the  porches, 

Into  rose  and  violet. 

And  with  passionate  dream  these  lovers, 
Stroll  through  the  dark  old  hall  ; 
Behind  them  an  Abbess  hovers 
In  shadow  from  wall  to  wall. 

For  his  life  no  prince  might  barter 
An  urn  of  jewels  bright — 
For  the  dagger  in  her  garter 
Will  pierce  his  heart  to-night  ! 

'Tis  the  bride  of  yon  cavaliero — 
And  his  wedding  ring  she  wears — 


42  VENICE  B  Y  MOONLIGHT. 

But  to-morrow  will  find  our  hero 
At  the  foot  of  some  secret  stairs. 


Land  where  the  sun  reposes, 
Bride  of  a  summer  sea, 
Realm  of  the  languid  roses, 
Is  the  picture  true  of  thee  ? 


A  NIGHT  IN  AN  OLD  ABBE  Y.  43 


A  NIGHT  IN  AN  OLD  ABBEY. 

VERDUROUS  lawn  with  plants  and  flowers 

Set  round  a  square  of  moated  towers — 
A  winding  river  where  the  yews 
On  either  side  form  avenues 
Whose  mingled  growth  of  leaf  and  vine 
Is  thrilled  with  sunshine  as  with  wine, 
Or  chilled  with  mist  of  April  rains 
That  glimmer  down  the  leafy  lanes— 
A  ruin  quaint  whose  ancient  wall 
And  porch,  and  pave,  and  court  and  hall 
Have  echoed  to  the  clanging  tread 
Of  knights  in  time  of  Ethelred, 
Or  clash  of  wassail-cups  upheld ' 
By  royal  hands  in  days  of  eld, — 
A  relic  of  that  olden  age 
Of  lord  and  jester,  prince  and  page — 
When  barges  slid  in  summer  eves, 
Red-canopied  with  silver  gleam 


44  A  NIGHT  IN  AN  OLD  ABBE  V. 

Of  moonlight  through  the  listless  leaves 
That  overhung  the  winding  stream — 
When  from  the  battlemented  roofs 
The  warden  leaned  to  clang  of  hoofs, 
And  heard  the  bell-gate  swing  ajar 
With  sound  of  voices  low  and  far, 
As  from  the  chase  a  courtly  train 
Wound  slowly  up  the  castle  lane — 
When  Saxon  battle-axe  and  lance 
In  tourney  flashed  at  Carlyel 
Or  Camelot,  or  rang  perchance 
In  fight  against  the  infidel— 
When  faint  and  sweet  were  softly  heard 
The  cithern  strings  in  cadence  stirred, 
With  glimpse  of  dainty  sword  and  plume, 
That  vanished  in  the  starlit  gloom, 
Where  roses  slept  in  spicy  vales 
Lulled  by  the  far-voiced  nightingales — 
When  through  the  Abbey's  gate  of  stone 
Sometimes  a  wax-light  cortege  shone 
With  sable  pall,  and  silent  tread, 
And  chanted  service  of  the  dead. 


A  NIGHT  IN  AN  OLD  ABBEY.  45 

Through  blue-stained  windows  glimmered  faint 
The  moonlight  on  the  figures  quaint 
Of  mail-clad  knight,  and  statued  saint. 

Two  knights  lay  side  by  side  at  rest 
With  coat-of-arms,  and  royal  crest, 
And  folded  hands  upon  the  breast. 

No  sound  the  utter  silence  stirred 
Of  footstep,  or  of  whispered  word, 
Only  the  wailing  wind  was  heard. 

But  when  its  voice  had  died  away 

A  glistening  light  of  fitful  ray 

Streamed  upward  where  the  two  knights  lay. 

In  hollow  tones  resounded  through 
Each  gloomy-vaulted  avenue 
The  words  distinctly  of  the  two. 

One  hoarsely  spake  :     "  The  deed  was  done 
Returning  home  at  set  of  sun 
From  tourney  at  brave  Caerleon. 


46  A  NIGH 'T  IN  AN  OLD  ABBEY. 

"  I  met  at  tilt  for  guerdon  rare 
The  boldest  of  her  wooers  there 
For  favor  of  my  lady  fair. 

"  Sir  Ethelred  my  might  defied, 
Sir  Ethelred  my  right  denied, 
And  by  his  treachery  I  died. 

"  Alas,  by  consecrated  ground 
Hard  by  my  castle  I  was  found 
With  cloven  helm,  and  gaping  wound  ! 

What  hap  befell  him — tell  me,  hast 
Thou  known  of  curse  to  overcast 
His  path  within  the  fortnight  past  ? " 

Replied  the  other  :     "  'Tis  a  year 
That  thy  mailed  shape  has  rested  here 
Upon  a  deftly-carven  bier. 

"  A  sheath  of  rust  encrusts  thy  blade, 
None  lately  at  thy  tomb  has  prayed, 
WThere  I  but  yesterday  was  laid. 


A  NIGHT  IN  AN  OLD  ABBEY.  47 

"  Sir  Ethelred  has  won  thy  bride, 
Thy  lady  fair  doth  at  his  side 
The  fairest  in  the  kingdom  ride. 

"  He  never  hath  a  crime  confessed, 
No  curse  doth  on  his  movements  rest, 
His  face  hath  peace  of  heart  expressed. 

"  He  mourned  thee  as  a  brother  might, 
He  praised  thee  for  a  valiant  knight, 
And  swore  thy  wrong  to  do  aright." 

To  this  the  voice  made  low  reply  : 
"  In  vain  the  dead  must  question  why 
Their  wrongs  should  unrequited  lie. 

"  Yet,  'tis  the  manner  of  the  earth, 
Our  deeds  are  soon  of  little  worth, 
Our  deaths  make  often  cruel  mirth.  • 

"  Hast  yet  a  wondrous  realm  explored 
Or  light  of  wing  as  Ariel  soared 
Beyond  the  angel's  flaming  sword  ? 


48  A  NIGHT  IN-  AN  OLD  ABBE  Y. 

Or  hast  through  caverns  dim  below 

Beheld  amid  a  tempest-glow 

Shapes  of  the  damned  flit  to  and  fro  ? ' 

The  iron  form  in  silence  lay, 

Till  with  the  moon's  declining  ray, 

Its  answer  sounded  far  away  : 

Sleep,  utter  sleep. — I  faintly  mind 
A  faith  in  something  undefined — 
All  else  forgotten.     Death  is  kind. 

With  all  its  train  of  pains  and  woes, 
A  life  well  rounded  to  the  close 
Brings  man  at  last  a  long  repose. 

"  Great  victory  a  solace  brings 
To  dying  ones  whose  sufferings 
A  change  will  work  in  many  things. 

"  But  when  the  fevered  pulse  is  stilled, 
Not  wide  proclaim  of  good  fulfilled 
Can  change  the  plan  that  nature  willed. 


A  NIGHT  IN  AN  OLD  ABBEY.  49 

"  And  then  ?     What  hast  thy  vision  found 
In  life  or  death  that  doth  surround, 
More  welcome  than  a  peace  profound  ? " 

Then  fainter  still  the  voice  replied  : 
"  I  have  forgotten — naught  beside 
The  death  I  wis — that  doth  abide." 


5°  DEJECTION. 


DEJECTION. 

I'VE  been  where  naught  but  Error  gloried 

Over  triumphs  won, 
Have  seen  man's  crimes  in  splendor  storied 
From  sun  to  sun. 

I've  felt  the  sorrow  of  hopes  blighted 

With  an  aching  breast, 
And  like  some  traveller  benighted 

Have  sought  to  rest. 

Love  turns  to  tears  at  Life's  bright  portal 

And  deep  shadows  cast 
A  doubt  upon  the  life  immortal, 

Ere  morn  is  past. 

For  Silence  sits  enthroned  supernal 
In  the  far  beyond, 


DEJECTION.  5 1 

And  from  the  depths  of  space  eternal 
No  lips  respond. 

Old  age  burns  out  its  poor  existence 

When  its  hour  is  late, 
And  frets  not  with  a  dull  resistance 

At  what  is  fate. 

And  youth  with  early  aspiration 

Clutches  sword  and  shield, 
Not  reconciled  to  such  invasion 

Nor  prone  to  yield. 

But  when  it  seeks  the  gentle  faces 

That  are  now  no  more, 
The  soul  its  stumbling  steps  retraces 

From  that  closed  door. 

Does  great  Pan  sleep  this  Sabbath  summer 

With  its  Autumn  haze, 
While  Nature  mourns  him — tardy  comer 

Of  other  days  ? 


52  DEJECTION. 

No  longer  hears  the  reed-pipe  calling — 

While  Echo  grieves — 
No  longer  hears  the  footsteps  falling 

Through  forest  leaves  ? 

Where  still  Arcadian  summers  linger 

Over  grove  and  grot, 
The  shepherds  fain  would  hear  the  singer, 

But  hear  him  not. 

Mine  ears  are  burdened  with  false  voices, 
And  sweet  truth  has  fled, 

I  call,  but  naught  the  heart  rejoices, 
For  Pan  is  dead. 

And  Silence  sits  enthroned  supernal 

In  the  far  beyond, 
And  from  the  depths  of  space  eternal 

No  lips  respond. 


OUR  BRETON  BRIDE.  53 


OUR  BRETON  BRIDE. 

IHIME,  chime  ye  bells  on  the  morning  air, 
(Birds,  sing  your  wildest  gladdest  lay, 
And  meadows  your  sweetest  blossoms  wear, 
For  our  loved  Fifine  is  to  wed  to-day  ! 
The  fairies  swing  on  the  stalks  of  wheat, 
The  white-rose  wakes,  and  the  foxgloves  stir, 
And  the  birds  in  the  garden  are  crying  Sweet, 
As  she  passes  by,  for  their  love  of  her  ! 

Fair,  Oh  fair  is  her  wedding-gown, 

Woven  of  silk  and  as  white  as  snow — 

Emerald-green  is  the  myrtle  crown 

That  wreathes  her  hair  in  its  amber  glow. — 

And  the  bridal  party  has  gone  away, 

The  boat  has  sailed  from  the  river  pier, 

With  a  flood  of  light  in  the  tossing  spray, 

To  the  boatman's  song,  and  the  landsman's  cheer  ! 


54  OUR  BRE TON  BRIDE. 

Oh,  sweet  young  face  in  the  bridal  lace 

Who  now  will  lead  in  the  village  green, 

In  the  merry  dance  with  your  faultless  grace, 

Since  you  left  us  to  mourn  your  loss,  Fifine  ? 

With  the  lilies  float,  Oh  golden  boat, 

On  the  river  of  Time  with  its  sparkling  tide, 

Ever  with  joy  to  the  year^  remote, 

With  our  Breton  lad  and  his  bonny  bride  ! 


THE  BANSHEE.  55 


THE  BANSHEE. 

|ITH  loosened  locks  and  features  wild 
A  weeping  mother  clasps  her  child  ; 
The  father  weaves  him  to  and  fro, 
Acushla,  crying  in  his  woe, 
As,  with  the  wailing  wind  and  rain, 
A  sound  goes  by  the  window-pane. 

The  bog-fire  nickers  in  the  gloom, 

The  shadows  hover  round  the  room, 

The  kettle  sings  a  weary  song, 

The  crickets  chirp  the  whole  night  long, 

But  darkly  down  the  gusty  plain 

A  shape  sweeps  past  the  window-pane. 

It  comes  when  moons  are  pale  or  red, 
From  out  the  valley  of  the  dead, 
Its  hair  is  black,  its  face  is  white, 


56  THE  BANSHEE, 

Its  bright  eyes  star  the  shades  of  night, 
And  wailing  wild  a  weird  refrain 
It  hurries  past  the  window-pane. 

A  horseman  rides  with  speed  afar, 

Black  clouds  are  shrouding  moon  and  star, 

The  lightning  flashes  overhead, 

And  man  and  horse  lie  prone  and  dead. 

And  at  his  home  the  weird  refrain 

Is  hushed  beneath  the  window-pant. 

The  crouching  dog  with  lifted  head, 
Is  moaning  by  his  master's  bed, 
The  storm  is  past — the  night  is  still — 
The  moon  is  shining  on  the  hill ; 
But  loved  ones  wait,  and  wait  in  vain, 
And  listen  at  the  window-pane. 


EVENING.  57 


EVENING. 

]RESH  are  the  fields  with  new-mown  hay 
The  sun  is  sinking  behind  the  hill, 

As  I  journey  homeward  at  close  of  day, 

Along  the  lane  in  the  evening  still. 

Cottage  windows  across  the  pond, 

Brightly  gleam  through  the  woods  beyond,' 
And  low  on  the  breezes  rise 

The  tinkle  of  bells  from  pastures  green 

And  over  the  bars  the  horses  lean 

With  welcoming  speechful  eyes. 

Up  from  the  meadows  with  loaded  wain, 
The  haymakers  come  with  weary  tread, 
And  chanticleer  and  his  feathered  train 
Are  slowly  seeking  the  barnyard  shed. 
The  sunlight  fades  and  from  yonder  hill 
Faintly  the  far-off  whippoorwill 


EVENING. 

It's  lonely  sorrow  tells, 
And  from  the  farm-house  portico, 
In  a  sunset  dream  of  long  ago, 

I  hear  the  village  bells. 

And  now  the  bat  in  uncertain  flight 

Is  swooping  under  the  twilight  trees, 

As  with  star-tapers  comes  slow  night 

With  vesper  chantings  in  the  breeze. 

And  the  owl  I  hear  from  its  leafy  bower 

Like  some  lone  ghost  in  some  lonesome  tower, 

Far  over  hill  and  dale, 
Where  silver  shields  of  the  moonlight  seem 
Upon  the  sentry  oaks  to  gleam, 
With  serried  coat-of-mail. 


MY  LADY  SLEEPS.  5 9 


MY  LADY  SLEEPS. 

MUST  bind  my  lady's  hair 
With  a  wreath  of  eglantere. 
Now  her  face  is  white  as  snow, 
I  must  charm  and  keep  it  so. 
Should  she  waken  at  my  touch 
She  would  surely  marvel  much- 
Snow-white  cheek  would  turn  to  red, 
Then  I'd  think  my  darling  dead  ! 

I  must  cross  her  lily  hands 
Ere  she  wakes,  and  understands  ; 
In  the  waxen  fingers  lay 
Calla-blossoms,  and  a  spray 
Of  the  dainty  mignonette. 
She  is  sleeping  gently  yet — 
Should  she  stir  upon  the  bed, 
Then  I'd  think  my  darling  dead  ! 


6O  MY  LADY  SLEEPS. 

I  must  on  her  feet  to-night 
Draw  her  satin  slippers  white, 
Fold  the  drapery  of  lace 
In  an  idle  form  of  grace  ; 
Turn  her  face  a  little — so — 
While  'tis  yet  as  white  as  snow, 
Should  she  move  her  gentle  head, 
Then  I'd  think  my  darling  dead  ! 


ALL  IN  THE  CHRISTMAS-TIDE,  6l 


ALL  IN  THE  CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 

]HE  hearth  is  bright — the  night  is  chill — 

The  chimney  breezes  moan  and  die — 
The  falling  snowflakes  crowd  the  sill, 
And  creaking  footsteps  hurry  by. 
The  shop-lights  glimmer  down  the  street, 
Where  shivering  human  creatures  grieve — 
Gaunt  shapes  of  misery  that  greet 
The  passer-by  this  Christmas  eve  ! 

What  songs  of  angels  fill  their  hearts 

To  quell  the  tumult  of  their  woe  ? 

Through  glittering  squares  and  crowded  marts, 

Like  Afrit  shapes  they  come  and  go. 

Lone  spirits  that  the  world  repels, 

What  joy  to  them  is  that  bright  morn 

That  ushers  in  with  chiming  bells 

The  day  the  Prince  of  Peace  was  born  ? 


62  ALL  IN  THE  CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 

The  day  will  come  with  kindry  cheer, 
And  pleasant  dreams  of  olden  times, 
Glad  greetings  charm  the  passing  year, 
And  blithely  peal  the  Christmas  chimes. 
The  yule-log  burn  with  lusty  roar, 
The  holly  glitter  in  the  blaze, 
While  mirth  and  minstrelsy  once  more 
Revive  the  merry-making  days. 

All  in  the  happy  Christmas-tide, 
When  castle  walls  were  loud  with  song, 
When  through  the  royal  archways  wide, 
Wandered  a  plumed  and  jewelled  throng. 
When  round  the  cottage  board  were  quaffed 
Huge  tankards  of  the  nut-brown  ale, 
And  oft  the  stout-limbed  swineherds  laughed 
At  some  blithe  Cedric's  jocund  tale. 

All  in  the  happy  Christmas-tide — 
(How  weirdly  sounds  the  wind  to-night !) 
Through  chapel  windows  branching  wide 
In  purple  grandeur  falls  the  light. 


ALL  IN  THE  CHRISTMAS-TIDE.  63 

I  seem  to  hear  the  song  of  peace 
Float  softly  on  the  snowy  air, 
And  as  the  blended  voices  cease, 
The  low  responses  to  the  prayer. 

And  here  to-night  I  sit  and  pore 
Over  a  book  of  ancient  time, 
A  legend  quaint  of  musty  lore, 
That  ripples  on  in  golden  rhyme 
About  a  castle  Llenwyn  hight 
Where  under  rafters  bending  low, 
A  tall  coifed  lady  robed  in  white 
Glides  slowly  neath  the  mistletoe. 

All  in  the  happy  Christmas-tide — 
Chilled  at  the  sight  are  lord  and  dame, 
And  when  that  shape  did  past  them  glide, 
No  soul  could  answer  whence  it  came. 
Hushed  was  the  harper's  golden  thrall, 
The  dancers  shrunk  with  trembling  fear, 
And  with  white  lips  did  watch  the  hall 
Through  which  they  marked  it  disappear. 


64  ALL  IN  THE  CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 

The  tale  goes  on. — Long  years  ago 
A  princess  of  the  house  was  wed, 
And  here  beneath  the  mistletoe, 
That  night  she  mourned  her  lover  dead  ! 
And  every  Yule-tide  from  the  tomb — 
(  Was  that  the  lattice-screen  that  stirred?) 
She  crosses  o'er  the  banquet  room 
But  sees  no  face  nor  utters  word. 

But  when  the  Gothic  hall  is  passed, 

And  from  the  moon  twixt  panes  of  gold, 

A  silver  splendor  round  is  cast 

On  twisted  carvings  dark  and  old, 

It  turns  a  ghastly  face  amain, 

It  lifts  a  weird  and  plaintive  cry — 

(  That  sound  against  the  window-pane — 

Was  that  the  night-wind  sweeping  by  ?) 

It  lifts  a  voice  of  keen  despair, 

And  turns  and  passes  through  the  hall ; 

And  moved  as  by  a  gust  of  air 

The  banners  flutter  on  the  wall. 


ALL  IN  THE  CHRISTMAS-TIDE.  65 

The  guests  in  satin  robe  and  shoon, 
And  dight  with  jewels  guard  the  door — 
The  lights  are  out — full  shines  the  moon 
On  terrace,  balcony,  and  floor. 

Without  a  sign  the  pallid  shade 
Comes  slowly  on  with  noiseless  tread, 
Till  one  brave  courtier  undismayed 
Clasps  in  his  arms  the  sheeted  dead  ! 
When  lo  !  upon  the  marble  pave, 
There  sank  with  something  like  a  sigh — 
(How  wild  the  winter  night  winds  rave  ! 
And  was  that  sound  a  human  cry  ? 

I  hear  it  o'er  the  stormy  blast — 

'  Tis  at  the  door — nay,  at  the  blind — 

The  snow  is  gathering  thick  and  fast, 

And  bitter  is  the  moaning  wind  *  *  * 

O  cruel  fates  that  drive  apace 

Of  starving  creatures  such  a  host — 

But  here  beside  the  hearth  I  place 

One  poor  half -frozen  shivering  ghost  /) 


66  THE  PASSING  SCENE. 


THE  PASSING  SCENE. 

|HEN  the  low  piping  of  the  birds  was  heard 
At  eve,  he  slept,  but  wakened  with  the  moon- 
Too  ill  to  talk,  for  days  he  spake  no  word, 
But  now  while  faintly  stirred  the  airs  of  June 
The  curtains  by  the  window,  where  he  lay, 
We  listened  to  a  voice  so  passing  strange, 
We  knew  at  last  would  come  ere  break  of  day, 
Revealed  in  death  the  sad  and  solemn  change. 

We  lifted  up  the  pale  face  in  the  light, 
The  cricket's  changeless  chirping  thrilled  the  air, 
And  all  the  plaintive  voices  of  the  night 
Blended  in  one  sweet  symphony  of  prayer. 
We  listened  to  the  gentle  words  he  said 
Recalling  years  whereof  he  seemed  to  dream, 
And  hopes  and  fancies  of  the  dear  days  fled, 
Like  withered  flowers,  on  life's  laosinsr  stream. 


THE  PASSING  SCENE.  6? 

Again  he  heard  the  Sabbath  evening  bell 
Sound  sweetly  under  twilight  skies  of  gold, 
Or  wandered  down  the  quiet  village  dell 
Below  the  mill  as  in  glad  days  of  old. 
And  lifting  up  his  feeble  hand  the  glow 
As  of  some  far-off  vision  filled  his  eyes, 
As  if  he  stood  joy-radiant  below 
The  angel-terraced  walls  of  Paradise  ! 

The  vision  of  the  dear  ones  long  years  dead, 

The  glory  of  the  dawning  after  death, 

Upon  his  face  a  peaceful  radiance  shed, 

While  faint  and  faltering  grew  his  failing  breath. 

Then  to  the  Holy  Book  he  turned  once  more, 

And  while  we  read  the  passage  that  he  loved, 

He  clasped  our  hands — life's  last  sad  scene  was  o'er, 

And  leaning  back,  he  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 


68  WHISPERS  OF  THE  ANGELS. 


WHISPERS  OF  THE  ANGELS. 

1OMETIMES  I  think  the  angels  listen 

Unto  our  little  ones  here  below, 
And  follow  with  eyes  that  tearfully  glisten, 
Their  wandering  footsteps  to  and  fro. 
And  over  our  households  in  hamlet  or  city, 
And  over  the  old  familiar  ways, 
There  lingers,  leaning  with  look  of  pity, 
Ever  the  angel  of  other  days. 

Ever  the  presence  of  those  departed — 
The  little  darlings  of  long  ago — 
And  mothers  who  mourn  and  are  broken-hearted, 
Look  up  in  tears  from  their  depths  of  woe. 
They  may  not  see  in  the  mist  before  them, 
The  outstretched  arms,  or  the  tender  gaze, 
But  still  in  their  sorrow  is  bending  o'er  them 
Gently  the  angels  of  other  days. 


WHISPERS  OF  THE  ANGELS.  69 

You  look  in  the  eyes  of  the  loved  one  left  you 
And  dream  of  the  skies  on  that  fairer  shore, 
Where  one  stands  waiting  since  death  bereft  you, 
And  cast  its  shadow  across  your  door. 
The  past  comes  back,  as  with  fond  caresses, 
The  little  one  to  your  heart  you  fold, 
But  the  tears  will  fall  in  the  sunny  tresses, 
As  you  mingle  your  gray  hair  with*  the  gold. 

In  the  last  faint  gleams  of  the  embers  burning 

You  sit  to-night  in  the  easy  chair, 

And  your  heart  recalls  with  a  throb  of  yearning 

The  little  head  that  was  bowed  in  prayer, 

The  little  hands  that  were  prest  together, 

Meekly  uplifted  in  homage  true, 

And  you  stifle  a  sob  as  you  wonder  whether 

Those  little  arms  are  outheld  for  you. 

And  your  thoughts  go  back  to  the  days  of  anguish, 
To  the  time  when  your  child  grew  strangely  ill, 
When  she  left  her  playthings  and  seemed  to  languish 
With  drooping  eyes,  in  your  arms  so  still  ; 


70  WHISPERS  OF  THE  ANGELS. 

When  she  looked  so  pale  on  the  pillow  lying, 
With  tangled  locks,  and  her  poor  thin  hand 
You  held  in  yours,  when  you  thought  her  dying, 
With  a  glow  on  her  face  of  a  brighter  land. 

You  remember  how  in  those  gloomy  hours, 
With  whisper  low  on  her  couch  of  pain,     . 
She  longed  to  look  at  her  garden  flowers, 
And  asked  if  the  roses  would  come  again  ? 
But  the  days  go  by,  and  the  silent  river 
Sweeps  on  with  never  a  token  fond — 
But  faith  is  yours,  though  the  black  racks  quiver, 
And  cloud  the  sky,  and  the  stars  beyond. 

Those  weary  days — those  days  of  sorrow — 
Your  lifted  hands  that  were  clenched  in  woe— 
Your  heart  that  yearned  for  that  vague  to-morrow 
To  end  its  agony  here  below  ! 
And  many  a  night  with  her  long  hair  gleaming, 
She  seemed  to  come  to  you  unawares, 
And  you  heard  her  footsteps— dreaming— dream  ing- 
Steal  lightly  down  the  crystal  stairs. 


WHISPERS  OF  THE  ANGELS.  7l 

How  lone  and  drear  with  its  silence  lingers 
That  snowy  couch  in  your  memory  yet, 
How  fair  she  seemed  with  her  waxen  fingers 
Upon  her  breast  with  the  mignonette  ! 
Twas  a  violet  ray  from  the  vase  of  roses 
That  fell  on  her  lily-bordered  bed, 
And  she  seemed  like  one  who  in  sleep  reposes, 
When  you  lifted  the  face-cloth  of  the  dead. 

There's  a  little  mound  in  the  churchyard  yonder 
Where  the  birds  are  singing  the  long  day  through, 
And  thither  in  summer  hours  you  wander 
With  flowers  like  those  she  brought  to  you. 
For  they  all  were  hers  with  their  tearful  faces — 
The  hooded  pansy  she  called  her  nun — 
The  valley  lilies  in  bridal  laces, 
The  daisies  that  leaned  to  the  summer  sun. 

And  your  eyes  grow  dim  as  across  the  meadow 
You  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  grove  below, 
With  its  rustic  arbor,  and  half  in  shadow, 
The  brook  where  the  water-cresses  grow. 


72  WHISPERS  OF  THE  ANGELS. 

For  often  beneath  the  old  oaks  swinging 
You  saw  her  white  form  through  the  trees, 
And  heard  her  merry  laughter  ringing 
Sweet  and  clear  on  the  morning  breeze. 

How  fondly  she  looked  in  your  eyes  when  weary 
You  sat  on  the  porch  as  the  sun  went  down, 
When  she  drew  your  face  to  her  own  so  cheery, 
And  laughingly  kissed  away  your  frown  ! 
Sometime — you  whisper  with  holy  feeling — 
You  will  clasp  her  close,  you  will  hear  her  speak, 
When  the  shadows  lift  from  the  shore,  revealing 
The  angel  form  of  the  one  you  seek. 

Nay,  weave  not  thoughts  with  the  funeral  garland, 
The  sombre  pall,  or  the  shrouded  urn, 
In  a  brighter  land  than  the  shining  star-land 
Is  dwelling  the  darling  for  whom  you  yearn. 
What  of  these  flowers  so  brown  and  faded, 
With  their  ribbon  she  tied,  in  her  love  for  you, 
Is  the  heart  of  the  garden,  you  think,  invaded 
By  the  biting  thorn,  and  the  bitter  rue  ? 


WHISPERS  OF  THE  ANGELS.  73 

Is  it  the  touch  of  a  presence  holy 
That  thrills  you  to-night  with  a  tender  grace  ? 
Or  is  it  the  gate  that  is  swinging  slowly. 
Through  which  you  can  see  her  angel  face  ? 
The  moonlight  steals  through  the  snow-white  cur 
tain, 

And  softly  falls  on  your  silver  hair, 
But  the  doubt  has  fled,  and  the  hope  uncertain 
Is  changed  to  faith  in  your  silent  prayer. 

Be  trustful — the  angels  are  ever  near  you, 

Their  unseen  pinions  are  rustling  by, 

They  come  and  go  with  their  smiles  to  cheer  you 

In  saintly  crowds  from  the  silent  sky. 

Ever  descending  with  love  and  pity, 

To  dear  ones  left  on  the  earthly  shore, 

Through  the  pure  white  gates  of  the  shining  city 

They  pass  and  repass  forevermore. 

They  come  when  the  morning  with  touches  tender 
Awakens  the  lilies  in  crowns  of  white, 
And  the  waves  of  dawn  in  their  purple  splendor 
Break  into  gold  on  the  shores  of  night. 


74  WHISPERS  OF  THE  ANGELS. 

When  the  far-off  evening  bells  are  ringing, 
And  a  silence  falls  on  the  twilight  sea, 
With  voices  low  are  the  angels  singing, 
As  they  sang  by  the  waters  of  Galilee. 


MYSTERY.  75 


MYSTERY. 

1LEASANT  it  is  these  eves  to  sit 

On  the  wide  old  porch  of  the  farmhouse  here, 
While  about  the  roof  of  the  red  barn  flit 
The  sidelong  swallows  twittering  near  ; 

And  across  lots  a  mile  away 
Towering  over  the  fir-tree  copse 
You  can  see  the  tall  round  chimney-tops 

Of  a  mansion  old  and  gray. 

'Twas  a  curious  structure  in  days  of  old — 

Nobody  lived  there — so  they  said — 

But  the  tale  I  remember  the  townsfolk  told 

Was  something  of  those  who  were  long  years  dead. 

And  each  Gothic  window  and  door 
Was  grim  as  the  gates  of  a  prison  wall, 
And  year  after  year  the  silent  hall 

A  gloomy  record  bore. 


76  MYSTERY. 

Once  by  the  cobwebbed  entrance  sat 

A  man  in  the  costume  of  years  ago, 

In  quaint  brass  buttons,  and  broad-rimmed  hat, 

Who  leaned  on  his  staff,  with  head  bent  low 

In  the  shade  of  the  evening  there, 
And  when  he  lifted  a  weary  face, 
Of  sorrows  many  was  seen  the  trace, 

And  of  age  the  silver  hair. 

Over  the  mansion  a  spell  was  thrown — 
It  seemed  like  an  evil  sprites'  abode  ; 
Under  the  moss-grown  stepping  stone 
The  black  snake  hid,  and  the  spotted  toad. 

And  when  the  wind  went  by, 
The  shutters  uttered  a  doleful  note 
Like  the  sounds  that  fill  a  chimney's  throat, 

A  weird  and  plaintive  cry. 

The  well  was  sunken,  and  over-run 
With  a  tangled  growth  of  weed  and  flower, 
And  the  bat  and  owl  that  shunned  the  sun 
Haunted  at  night  the  crumbling  tower. — 


MYSTERY.  77 

Out  on  the  grass-grown  lawn 
I  remember  the  sun-dial  stained  with  rust, 
And  the  fountain  urn  that  was  filled  with  dust, 

But  the  rustic  seat  is  gone. 

Long  years  it  has  stood  neglected — dead — 
No  hand  has  striven  to  break  the  spell 
That  clothes  it  round  with  fear  and  dread, 
Nor  can  a  soul  its  history  tell, 

Or  how,  or  when  'twas  built. — 
Upon  its  piazza  floor  a  mark 
They  say  discolored  is,  and  dark, 

Where  human  blood  was  spilt. 

And  many  a  night  the  village  folk 
Have  seen  a  pale  face  through  the  pane 
Or  followed  a  shape  in  muffled  cloak 
Till  it  vanished  down  the  lonely  lane 

Below  the  fir-tree  copse  ; 
All  day  the  birds  fly  in  and  out, 
At  dusk  the  swallows  skim  about 

Those  crumbling  chimney  tops. 


78  MYSTERY. 

No  human  footsteps  are  ever  heard 
Within  those  lonesome  walls  of  stone, 
But  ever  the  attic-blind  is  stirred 
Where  ghostly  trees  make  doleful  moan — 

And  at  night  through  the  willows  tail, 
The  moon  peers  in  with  tresses  white 
And  seems  to  rest  long  arms  of  light 

Upon  the  window  wall. 

A  film  of  dust  lies  on  the  floor, 
And  silently  from  room  to  room 
Small  shadowy  footprints  glide  before 
The  eye  and  vanish  in  the  gloom. 

And  the  staircase  deep  and  wide 
Will  creak  with  the  sound  of  unseen  feet 
And  tremble  as  if  some  dread  affreet 

Had  sought  its  depths  to  hide. 

There's  a  witch  whose  constant  theme  is  death- 
Who  tells  of  a  house  where  blood  was  shed — 
Of  drabbled  locks,  and  gasping  breath 
Of  an  old  man  struggling  upon  his  bed, 


MYSTERY.  79 

Where  the  curtains'  tightening  band 
With  its  choking  folds  to  his  throat  is  prest 
And  a  blood-stained  dagger  in  his  breast 

Is  clutched  by  a  small  white  hand  ! 


80  THE  FEAST  OF  SAN  MARCO. 


THE  FEAST  OF  SAN  MARCO. 

does  that  eremite  sit  at  the  feast, 
With  his  sharp  black  eyes,  and  his  tonsured 

hair  ? 

Not  jolly  is  he  like  that  fat  old  priest, 
Or  the  white-faced  notary  lean  and  spare, 
With  his  elbows  resting  upon  the  board. 
A  twinkling  eye  hath  our  liege,  his  grace, 
And  the  young  court  gallant  with  tilted  sword 
Hath  a  roguish  look  in  his  fair  young  face- 
But  the  devil  himself  you  would  almost  swear 
Leans  back  in  that  dark-browed  hermit's  chair  ! 

His  brow  is  wrinkled,  his  hand  is  thin, 
As  it  toys  with  the  goblet  of  ruddy  wine, 
So  thin  that  the  bones  show  through  the  skin 
And  white  as  a  woman's — I  wis  as  fine 
As  a  high-born  cavaliero's  hand. 


THE  FEAST  OF  SAN  MARCO.  8 1 

But  the  night  before,  in  the  narrow  street, 
There  swooped  from  the  mountains  a  robber  band, 
There  were  cries  of  murder — a  hurry  of  feet — 
And  this  black-eyed  hermit's  hand  was  red, 
From  shriving  the  dying — the  good  folk  said. 

A  hermit's  a  hermit — and  why  should  he 

In  his  Capucin  cowl,  and  his  priestly  gown, 

Sit  here  at  the  feast,  and  as  lordly  be 

As  the  one  patrician  of  all  the  town 

Who  can  melt  his  pearls  in  his  wassail-cup  ? 

Now  listen  !     I  saw  him  a  fortnight  since — 

This  pious  recluse  who  has  come  to  sup — 

Through  the  catacombs  guiding  our  host,  the  prince. 

But  what  of  these  candlesticks  quaint  and  old, 

And  this  antique  plate,  and  those  cups  of  gold  ? 

Above  the  Cathedral  del  Parto  stands 
The  home  of  a  sculptor  embowered  in  vines. 
Beyond  it  glimmer  green  meadow  lands, 
Before  it  the  far-twinkling  water  shines 
Of  the  blue  bright  bay  of  Naples.     Here, 
(Now  but  a  dream  of  the  past,  alas  !) 


82  THE  FEAST  OF  SAN  MARCO. 

Dwelt  his  daughter  Carita,  and  year  by  year, 
She  met  with  the  black-eyed  monk  at  mass. 
Then  she  disappeared — and  that  hermit  there 
Was  gone  for  a  month  and  a  day — but  where  ? 

If  you  wander  by  night  in  this  city  of  ships, 
This  town  with  its  mountain  that  shadows  the  west 
Like  a  huge  black  giant  that  sits  with  its  lips 
Drooling  lambent  fire  down  its  rugged  breast, 
Have  a  care  for  your  life,  for  the  veriest  cur 
Can  stand  in  a  passage  and  strike  you  dead, 
And  none  but  a  priest  might  hear  a  stir 
As  he  passed  on  his  lonely  way  to  bed. 
A  far  faint  sound  by  the  dark  sea  wall, 
A  splash  in  the  water — and  that  is  all  ! 

But  they  say  of  this  hermit  in  Capucin  gown, 
Who  sits  at  the  feast  looking  solemn  as  fate, 
In  this  black  grim  castle  just  out  of  the  town 
So  famed  for  its  wine,  and  its  rare  old  plate, 
And  its  quaint-wrought  silver  of  long  ago, 
That  a  man  like  this  they  have  sometimes  seen 


THE  FEAST  OF  SAN  MARCO.  83 

In  the  mountains  watching  the  path  below, 
Leaning  over  the  rocks  with  his  carabine. — 
And  that  dread  volcano  !  that  red-mouthed  hell  ! 
Who  knows  what  secret  its  depths  could  tell  ? 

Did  he  know  this  prince  in  the  years  ago 

Till  he  met  him  starving  and  gave  him  bread  ? 

Does  he  hive  in  the  catacombs  down  below 

In  the  dark  deep  vaults  of  the  loathsome  dead  ? 

Where  is  his  hermitage  ?     Who  can  tell  ? 

And  whence  came  his  patron's  treasures  old  ? 

Is  his  chamber  of  skulls  a  penance  cell, 

Or  hung  with  tapestry  fringed  with  gold  ? 

If  they  seek  it,  they'll  find  it,  without  a  doubt — 

But  I  question  their  chances  of  getting  out  ! 


84  AT  THE  OLD  HOME. 


AT  THE  OLD  HOME. 

"  We  may  build  more  splendid  habitations, 

Fill  our  rooms  with  paintings  and  with  sc^llpt^^res, 

JBut  we  cannot 
Btiy  with  gold,  the  old  associations." 

Longfellow. 


jTILL  as  of  old  the  blue  bird  sings 

Over  the  winding  woodland  walk- 
In  yonder  meadow  blithely  swings 
The  bobolink  with  tipsy  wings 
Upon  the  bended  mullein-stalk. 

I  see  the  old  home  through  the  leaves 
That  twinkle  in  a  maze  of  gold, 
And  round  its  quaint  old-fashioned  eaves 
The  woodbine  still  a  mantle  weaves 
The  same  as  in  the  days  of  old. 


AT  THE  OLD  HOME.  85 

Here  by  the  brookside  path  I  strayed 
In  sunny  hours  when  days  were  long, 
And  birds  the  same  sweet  music  made, 
Though  now  from  cloistered  grove  and  glade, 
There  seems  to  come  a  sadder  song. 

The  names  we  carved  upon  the  tree 
Have  disappeared  this  many  a  year  ; 
And  where  the  old  oak  used  to  be, 
Only  the  vision  comes  to  me 
Of  faces  that  were  then  so  dear. 

A  bridge  is  built  across  the  stream 

Where  once  we  placed  the  stepping-stones ; 

I  hear  the  waters  now  that  seem — 

Like  far-off  music  in  a  dream — 

To  greet  me  in  familiar  tones. 

Up  yonder  lane  the  schoolhouse  old 
Still  stands  amid  surrounding  farms, 
And  as  I  now  the  place  behold 
What  dreams  of  youth  each  scene  enfold 
As  with  the  clasp  of  loving  arms  ! 


86  AT  THE  OLD  HOME. 

The  children  play  upon  the  green 
Light-hearted  as  in  days  of  yore, 
But  other  faces  seem  to  lean 
With  tender  gaze  upon  the  scene, 
Whose  step  will  come  again  no  more  ! 

And  yonder  is  the  churchyard  keep, 
The  close  within  whose  sacred  fold 
Some  now  in  solemn  silence  sleep, 
Above  whose  graves  the  pansies  peep, 
And  lilies  lift  their  crowns  of  gold. 

And  as  the  sunset's  glory  dies 
Above  yon  village  spire  aglow, 
I  seem  to  hear  with  tearful  eyes, 
A  strain  of  music  from  the  skies. 
And  voices  of  the  long  ago  ! 


THE  CHEYENNE  MASSACRE.  87 


THE  CHEYENNE  MASSACRE. 

|IFT  up  your  hands  that  clutch  for  gold, 
And  spurn  the  heathen  from  your  path— 
His  hand  is  red,  his  heart  is  cold, 
He  well  deserves  your  Christian  wrath  ! 
O  bid  him  in  his  sorrow  go, 
Take  life  and  land  and  sate  your  greed 
Of  gold  though  tears  and  blood  should  flow, 
Then  justify  your  noble  deed 
By  any  creed  that  you  may  know  ! 

The  Indian  hath  no  rights  to  serve, 
Or  sense  to  wrong,  or  soul  to  save, 
O  never  from  your  purpose  swerve 
But  hound  the  culprit  to  his  grave  ! 
'Tis  surely  not  the  Christian  way 
To  take  the  red-man  by  the  hand — 
Lift  meek  and  humble  eyes,  and  pray 


THE  CHEYENNE  MASSACRE. 

For  heathen  in  some  other  land — 
Some  creatures  on  a  foreign  shore 
Who  worship  God  in  sun  and  stars, 
Let  in  the  light  through  golden  bars 
To  them  who  need  your  service  more  ! 

The  Master  surely  never  taught 

Compassion  for  this  savage  race; 

So  lift  a  mild  beseeching  face 

And  steal  what  other  men  have  bought. 

Go  satisfy  a  greedy  love 

Of  gain,  and  slay  your  fellow-man, 

But  sanctify  the  deed  above 

By  God's  own  teachings  if  you  can  ! 


THE  LAST  LET TER.  89 


THE  LAST  LETTER. 

TAKE  it  away  for  it  burns  my  brain, 
And  my  heart  is  breaking — no  light — no 

day — 

No  love  to  soften  the  cruel  pain 
That  my  spirit  suffers — take  it  away  ! 
'Tis  the  last  fond  letter  he  wrote  when  ill, 
And  could  hardly  lift  his  little  hand— 
And  when  I  found  him  so  white  and  still, 
I  cursed  the  God  that  had  cursed  the  land  ! 

The  words  are  blurred,  and  I  only  see 

The  large  brown  eyes,  and  the  poor  thin  face 

So  pitiful,  waiting  and  watching  for  me, 

With  his  arms  outheld  for  a  last  embrace. 

And  this  letter  written  with  feeble  pen 

Just  as  he  left  it  here  at  his  side 

To  tell  me  over  and  over  again 

How  he  longed  to  see  me  before  he  died ! 


go  THE  LA  S  T  LE  TTER. 

How  deep  the  silence  that  chills  the  gloom  ! 

No  cheery  footfall  upon  the  stair, 

No  gentle  voice  in  the  lonely  room, 

No  folded  hands  at  my  side  in  prayer, 

Nor  the  goodnight  kiss  that  my  heart  has  known, 

When  I  clasped  him  close  with  a  mother's  joy — 

But  only  to  dream  of  the  past — and  alone 

To  sit  and  weep  for  my  darling  boy  ! 

And  I  lean  at  the  window— across  the  way, 

On  the  pavement  fronting  the  busy  square, 

My  little  neighbor  stops  at  his  play, 

And  looks  at  the  house  with  a  sober  stare. 

And  I  see  him  sit  with  his  cheek  on  his  hand, 

And  I  know  he  is  thinking  of  days  that  are  fled, 

And  vainly  striving  to  understand 

What  they  mean  by  saying  his  friend  is  dead. 

And  oft  when  the  weary  day  is  done, 
And  the  far-off  evening  bells  sound  low, 
And  through  the  shutters  the  sinking  sun 
Is  casting  a  radiant  mellow  glow, 


THE  LAST  LETTER.  91 

I  fancy  I  hear  his  voice,  and  seem 
To  catch  his  face  in  the  passing  crowd, 
And  1  start  and  wake  from  a  troubled  dream, 
In  the  gathering  darkness,  and  cry  aloud  ! 

And  this  is  the  book — the  last  he  read — 
With  the  leaf  turned  down  at  the  very  page 
Where  he  ceased  when  weary — and  there  by  his  bed, 
Is  the  bird — his  bird — in  its  lonely  cage. 
But  it  does  not  sing  with  its  old  delight 
When  the  cheery  voice  of  its  friend  was  heard, 
For  the  room  so  desolate,  once  so  bright, 
Brings  a  pang  of  sorro\y  to  that  poor  bird  ! 

0  ever  I  list  to  a  cry  of  pain, 

And  to  see  through  the  blinding  tears  that  rise, 
The  arms  that  were  lifted  for  me  in  vain, 
And  the  pale,  thin  face  with  the  large  brown  eyes  . 
And  I  clasp  his  letter,  and  kneeling  low, 

1  pray  that  the  shadow  may  pass  me  by, 
But  'tis  better  a  thousand  times  to  go — • 
To  fold  my  hands  in  my  grief — and  die  ! 


92  POTS  OF  GOLD. 


POTS  OF  GOLD. 


A    SLEEPY    HOLLOW    EPISODE. 

"  A  drowsy,  dreamy  influence  seems  to  hang  over  the  land,  and  to 
pervade  the  very  atmosphere.  Some  say  that  the  place  was  bewitched 
by  a  high  German  doctor,  during  the  early  days  of  the  settlement ; 
others,  that  an  old  Indian  chief,  the  prophet  or  wizard  of  his  tribe,  held 
his  pow-wows  there  before  the  country  was  discovered  by  Master 
Hendrick  Hudson.  Certain  it  is,  the  place  continues  under  the  sway  of 
some  witching  power,  that  holds  a  spell  over  the  minds  of  the  good 
people,  causing  them  to  walk  in  a  continual  reverie.  They  are  given 
to  all  kinds  of  marvellous  beliefs ;  are  subject  to  trances  and  visions ; 
and  frequently  see  strange  sights  and  hear  music  and  voices  in  the  air. 
The  whole  neighborhood  abounds  in  local  tales,  haunted  spots,  and 
twilight  superstitions  ;  stars  shoot  and  meteors  glare  oftener  across  the 
valley  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  country,  and  the  nightmare,  with 
her  whole  nine  fold,seems  to  make  it  the  favorite  scene  of  her  gambols." 

The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 


RUIN  of  some  ancient  hall 

That  overlooked  the  river  wall — 
A  ruin  of  some  old  chateau 
Built  several  hundred  years  ago, 
About  which  ghostly  tales  are  told 
Of  pirates,  who,  in  days  of  old, 


POTS  OF  GOLD.  93 

Along  this  weird  romantic  shore 
Buried  huge  chests  of  gleaming  ore." 

Thus  spake  the  boatman  unto  me, 
One  evening,  on  the  Tappan  Zee. 

"  This  ? — why  the  legend  runs  that  when 
Old  Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  men 
Sailed  slowly  up  the  river  tide, 
They  saw  upon  the  starboard  side 
Tall  towers,  and  many-windowed  walls, 
And  heard  men  shout  within  the  halls, 
But  when  its  water-steps  were  neared, 
Enchanted-like,  it  disappeared  !  " 

Thus  spake  the  fisherman  I  met 
Intently  toiling  with  his  net. 

"  A  fortress  of  the  olden  time, 
A  relic  of  a  golden  clirne, 
When  caravels  of  Spanish  seas 
Spread  sail  with  treasure-laden  hold, 


94  POTS  OF  GOLD. 

The  black  flag  flying  in  the  breeze, 
And  manned  by  swarthy  men  of  old. 
Some  say,  a  convent,  old  and  gray, 
Where  penitents  did  fast  and  pray 
Three  hundred  years  ago,  or  more — 
For  round  its  ancient  Gothic  door 
Were  carven  pious  legends  quaint 
Beneath  its  sculptured  patron  saint." 

Thus  spake  by  Sleepy  Hollow's  brook 
The  Dominie  with  learned  look. 


Green  leaves  were  trembling  in  a  maze 
Of  violet  light,  and  in  and  out 
Tall-towered  oaks,  the  robins  flew, 
While  up  each  forest  avenue, 
At  times  I  heard  the  far-off  shout 
Of  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  that  rose  and  died 
In  echoes  through  the  quiet  woods. 
For  all  these  hazy  summer  days, 
From  early  dawn  to  eventide, 


POTS   OF  GOLD.  95 

Is  Sleepy  Hollow's  drowsy  glen 
Still  haunted  by  the  little  men 
In  blouses  green,  and  tasselled  hoods. 
And  ho  !  ho  !  ho  !   from  every  side, 
Their  voices  from  the  woodland  rise 
Where  willows  old,  with  tresses  sleek, 
And  withered  oaks,  whose  knots  are  eyes, 
Do  seem  with  hollow  tone  to  speak. 

From  twinkling  brook,  and  bracken  dense, 
Such  summer  sounds  as  lull  the  sense, 
Thrilled  the  warm  air  of  one  fair  June 
Through  all  a  drowsy  afternoon. 
I  strove  to  read,  but  o'er  the  book 
Nodded,  and  slept  beside  the  brook, 
Until  a  voice  above  me  spoke, 
That  seemed  to  issue  from  the  oak, 
Whose  mantle's  shining  fret  and  fold 
Shimmered  like  cloth  of  green  and  gold. 
For  now  the  moon  above  the  woods 
Shone  full  upon  a  wondrous  scene — 
Deep  forest  glades,  and  solitudes, 


POTS  OF   GOLD. 

With  boulders  black  that  seemed  to  lean 
Over  the  hills,  where  softly  shone 
The  cascade-waters  of  a  stream. 
Broke  on  my  vision  like  a  dream. 
Before  me  stood  with  ancient  wall, 
Arch,  bastion,  turret,  lifted  tall, 
A  huge  portcullised  pile  of  stone. 
A  drawbridge  wide  was  outward  thrown 
Above  a  moat,  while  in  the  glow 
Of  moonlight,  men  walked  to  and  fro, 
Along  the  upper  wards,  or  leant 
Over  the  steep-walled  battlement. 

But  lo  !  my  very  self  in  sooth 

Had  suffered  change  from  head  to  heel. 

I  wore  such  garb  as  men  in  truth 

Once  used  in  days  of  proud  Castile, 

When  in  the  reign  of  Ferdinand, 

Its  Spanish  pirates  swept  the  seas, 

Or  bandits  scoured  the  mountain  land. 

Huge  leathern  hose  reached  to  my  knees, 

A  long  knife  glittered  at  my  waist, 


POTS   OF  GOLD.  9 

Beneath  a  doublet  silver-laced, 
While  near  me  in  the  spectral  gloom, 
A  musket  lay  with  hat  and  plume. 

"  What  vessel  sails  up  yonder  bay  ?  " 
I  heard  a  voice  ring  on  the  air, 
As  filled  with  terror  and  dismay, 
I  watched  the  lights  flash  here  and  there 
Within  that  fortress  weird  and  tall. 
I  crossed  the  swinging  drawbridge  where 
The  lamps  streamed  from  the  windowed  wall, 
Athwart  the  mellow  moonlight  air, 
And  stood  within  an  ancient  court 
Where  loitered  men  with  clanking  sword, 
Or  wildly  clashed  in  boist'rous  sport 
Their  flagons,  at  the  banquet  board. 

In  high-heeled  shoes,  and  doublets  red, 
With  belted  steel,  and  Spanish  hat, 
And  clay-white  features  like  the  dead, 
They  met  my  gaze  and  silent  sat, 
As  if  rebuking  with  a  stare, 


98  POTS   OF   COLD. 

The  man  who  dared  to  trespass  there. 
Till  one  above  the  ghastly  crowd, 
Peered  'neath  his  hand,  and  cried  aloud  : 
"  'Tis  only  poor  dumb  Winkelried 
Returned  from  hunting  in  the  wold, 
So  get  ye  fellows  hence — make  speed 
And  safely  house  the  pots  of  gold  !  " 
At  once  I  strove  to  speak,  but  found 
My  lips  refused  to  utter  sound, 
And  quite  as  pale  of  face  as  they, 
Upon  a  bench  beside  the  door, 
I  watched  the  ghostly  figures  fade 
Deep  in  the  shadow  of  the  glade. 
The  moonlight  blue  through  arches  gray, 
Gleamed  on  the  forest-skirted  shore 
Whence  lightly  came  the  dip  of  oar, 
While  on  the  bosom  of  the  bay 
A  full-rigged  bark  at  anchor  lay. 

The  men  returned  with  heavy  tread, 
Bearing  their  burdens  through  the  gate — 
Their  features  were  as  like  the  dead 


POTS   OF  GOLD.  99 

As  those  beneath  a  coffin-plate. 
And  from  the  Gothic  underwall, 
The  spectral  glare  of  torches  shone, 
Like  flambeaux  at  a  funeral 
Within  some  abbey's  crypt  of  stone. 
The  sound  of  mattock  and  of  spade, 
Broke  the  dark  stillness  of  the  place, 
While  through  the  deep  rotunda's  shade, 
At  times  I  saw  a  pallid  face. 
Again  I  heard  a  murmur  low, 
That  louder  grew  with  every  breath, 
Then  clash  of  steel,  blow  after  blow, 
With  curses  loud  through  arches  wide, 
That  echoing  back,  the  walls  replied — 
And  then — a  silence  deep  as  death  ! 


I  woke  beside  the  twilight  stream, 
In  Sleepy  Hollow's  haunted  dell, 
And  like  strange  voices  in  a  dream 
The  waters'  murmur  rose  and  fell 
Over  the  rocks  beside  the  mill. 


100  POTS   OF   GOLD. 

The  boatman's  song  came  up  the  bay, 
The  fisher's  skiff  at  anchor  lay, 
While  far-off  o'er  the  distant  hill, 
I  faintly  heard  the  village  bell. 


AT  THE  CHURCH  YA'Rti>6AT£.    '*'  '  1*01 


AT  THE  CHURCHYARD  GATE. 

|N  a  perfect  moonlight  night, 

(The  warm  south  breezes  flew 
Whispering  through  the  leaves, 
And  I  heard  the  brook  sing  too 
Mournfully,  mournfully, 
Like  the  voice  of  one  that  grieves) 
I  saw  in  the  yellow  light,. 
Come  from  its  churchyard  bed, 
Clothed  in  its  grave-gown  white, 
The  ghost  of  my  friend  long  dead. 

And  its  shimmering  tangled  hair 

Down  to  its  feet  it  shook, 

And  its  wax-white  face  did  wear 

Such  a  wild  and  piercing  look, 

That  T  shrank  from  its  presence  there, 

With  fear,  by  the  moaning  brook. 


102        'AT  THE  •CJf  UR  CII YA  RD  GA  TE. 

Of  the  burden  of  secret  tears, 

And  the  anguish  of  other  years — 

It  spake  with  a  hollow  sound, 

Under  the  cypress  tall — 

Of  its  bed  that  was  cold  and  wet, 

Of  its  long  night  underground, 

And  the  death-damp  that  lingered  yet 

On  its  brow  for  the  past,  and  all. 

"  They  dug  down  deep, 
And.  covered  me  over, 
And  left  me  to  sleep — 
But   I  heard  the    clover 
Whisper,  whisper  through  the  night, 
When  I  started  up  with  fright 
At  the  footsteps  of  my  lover. 

'  Why  does  he  seek  me  dead, 
And  weep  above  my  mound  ? 
His  tears  come  down,  and  I  stir  in  bed, 
Wake  in  my  cold  bed  underground, 
And  rise,  and  seek  him  where, 


AT  THE  CHURCHYARD  GATE.  IO; 

On  the  garden  seat,  in  the  pale  moonshine, 
Of  old  he  smoothed  my  shining  hair, 
And  pressed  his  lips  to  mine. 

:  Bui  he  sees  me  not,  nor  lingers 
A  moment,  nor  does  he  know, 
As  I  clasp  in  my  thin  cold  fingers 
His  hands,  that  I  love  him  so. 
I  kneel  at  his  side  to  cheer  him, 
In  the  gloaming  and  the  dawn, 
But  when  he  feels  me  near  him, 
He  rises — and  is  gone. 
The  night  grows  old, — 
Oh,  the  earth  is  cold 
Under  the  cypress  tall — 
But  to-morrow,  to-morrow 
For  the  sinning  and  the  sorrow 
He  shall  know  all !  " 


1 04  THE  A  US  TRIA  N  RE  VIE  W. 


AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  AUSTRIAN 
REVIEW. 

]IFT  up  the  golden  tassels. 

Let  the  floss  run  through  your  hands- 
In  the  sunlight  how  it  glistens 

With  its  broad  and  purple  bands  ! 
No  lordlier  bridle  ever 

Was  worn  with  coat-of-mail 
In  the  days  of  old  with  Arthur, 

Or  glorious  Percivale  ! 

Softly  the  silver  music 

Steals  through  the  palace  gate, 
And  without,  the  Austrian  standards 

And  the  royal  guardsmen  wait. 
To-day  victorious  heroes 

In  the  grand  review  will  ride, 
Whom  the  Emperor  and  Empress 

Will  greet  with  royal  pride. 


THE  A  USTRIAN  RE  VIE  W.  10$ 

His  majesty's  steed  is  waiting, 

And  he  mounts,  and  the  champing  line 
Moves  out  to  the  hills  beyond  them, 

Where  the  steel-bright  squadrons  shine. 
And  the  Empress  in  her  carriage, 

As  it  halts  for  the  grand  review, 
Is  hailed  with  huzzas  of  homage 

From  loyal  hearts  and  true. 

With  nodding  plumes  and  banners, 

And  with  flying  eagles  gay, 
Now  legion  after  legion 

Sweeps  by  in  proud  array  ; 
Chasseurs  with  lance  and  guidon 

Pass  on  with  prancing  tread, 
And  tattered  flags  are  lifted 

That  veteran  heroes  led. 

And  across  the  shining  levels, 

The  mounted  squadrons  wheel. 
And  with  lances  lifted  proudly, 

They  gleam  long  lines  of  steel. 


1 06  THE  A  US  TRIA  N  RE  VIE  W. 

Then  like  a  gathered  storm-cloud, 
They  thunder  down  the  plain, 

When  from  the  watching  thousands, 
Goes  up  a  cry  of  pain  ! 

For  a  little  child  has  wandered, 

And  stands  demure  and  still, 
In  the  pathway  of  the  troopers, 

As  they  swiftly  round  the  hill. 
Then  its  little  arms  are  lifted, 

As  they  touch  the  level  plain, 
And  with  tottering  feet  it  reaches 

To  the  shouting  crowds  in  vain  ! 

When  behold,  a  stalwart  horseman 

Drops  his  lance,  and  swinging  round, 
O'er  his  charger's  neck,  in  safety 

Lifts  the  maiden  from  the  ground  ! 
Ten  thousand  ringing  bravos 

For  the  hero  and  the  man — 
And  the  little  one  is  riding 

With  the  foremost  in  the  van  ! 


THE  A  US  TRIA  N  RE  VIE  W.  I O  / 

Soon  back  the  trooper  gallops 

With  the  little  child  before, 
And  halts  and  yields  the  darling 

To  a  mother's  arms  once  more. 
And  joyfully  the  Empress 

Is  smiling  through  her  tears, 
And  again  the  hills  re-echo 

With  the  loud  and  ringing  cheers  ! 

Dismounted,  stood  the  soldier 

At  the  Emperor's  command, 
While  all  the  army  wondered 

As  he  clasped  the  hero's  hand. 
With  the  proudest  badge  of  valor 

The  trooper's  breast  he  starred, 
And  bade  him  mount  his  charger 

As  the  captain  of  the  guard  ! 

Lift  up  the  golden  tassels, 

Let  the  floss  run  through  your  hands— 
In  the  sunlight  how  it  glistens 

With  its  broad  and  purple  bands  ! 


1 08  THE  A  US  TRIA  N  RE  VIE  W. 

No  lordlier  bridle  ever 

Was  worn  with  coat-of-mail, 

In  the  days  of  old  with  Arthur, 
Or  glorious  Percivale  ! 


A  MIDSUMMER  DA  Y'S  DREAM.  1 09 


A  MIDSUMMER  DAY'S  DREAM. 

|ITH  eyes  ashine  in  the  summer  sun, 

A  squirrel  peeps  through  the  branches  down, 
And  over  their  gossamer  bridges  run 
The  spiders  in  jackets  of  blue  and  brown. 
And  here  in  the  grass  under  fleecy  skies, 
Alone  by  the  marge  of  the  prattling  brook, 
With  a  wonderful  light  in  her  big  brown  eyes, 
Sits  a  fairy  reading  a  fairy  book. 

Across  the  way  by  an  ancient  oak, 
An  ouph  is  weaving  a  magic  screen, 
In  bent-grass  feather,  and  sun-bright  cloak 
He  sits  a  glimmer  of  gold  and  green. 
The  curious  birds  stand  just  aloof, 
And  timidly  gather  about  the  place, 
And  watch  him  toiling  on  warp  and  woof, 
But  flutter  back  when  he  lifts  his  face. 


HO          A  MIDSUMMER  DA  Y'S  DREAM. 

Two  by  two  from  the  mountain  wall, 
Winding  down  through  the  drowsy  glen, 
Two  by  two  through  the  poplars  tall, 
Are  filing  the  troops  of  little  men. 
And  hark  to  the  music  far  away, 
The  singing  of  merry  elves  and  trolls 
Comes  like  the  linnet's  moonlight  lay 
Over  the  mossy  woodland  knolls  ! 

In  plumes,  and  jewels,  and  tasselled  hoods, 
In  pea-green  doublets,  from  groves  and  lawns, 
Elves  that  toil  in  the  cool  green  woods, 
With  pointed  ears  like  the  dancing  fauns, 
White-beard  gnomes  that  guard  the  gold, 
And  hide  the  diamond  from  mortal  sight, 
Light-winged  fay,  and  goblin  old, 
Laughing  pixie,  and  water-sprite  ! 

Through  a  narrow  passage  and  dark  as  night, 
They  pass  and  their  forms  are  hid  from  view, 
And  still  they  follow  with  footsteps  light, 
To  a  tinkling  melody,  two  and  two. 


A  MIDSUMMER  DAY'S  DREAM.  I 

Down  through  the  glistening  urider-walls, 
Where  lifts  a  city  its  turret  and  dome, 
They  journey  on  through  the  mystic  halls 
To  the  summer  land  of  the  fairy's  home. 

When  first  the  throbbings  of  life  begin 

In  the  earth,  and  the  frost  escapes  the  sun, 

The  wee  folk  silently  sit  and  spin, 

And  weave  and  wind  till  their  task  is  done. 

They  toil  at  the  roots  of  the  ancient  oak, 

They  fill  with  juices  the  secret  cells, 

And  millions  of  mattocks  with  silent  stroke 

Loosen  the  ice  of  the  crystal  wells. 

Through  fibrous  depths  of  the  leafless  trees 
With  tiny  buckets  they  come  and  go, 
Till  the  full  leaves  bow  to  the  bending  breeze 
And  the  ripe  fruits  burden  the  branches  low. 
Down  shining  ladders  of  sun  and  rain, 
They  bear  full  measures  of  warmth  and  cheer, 
To  mountain,  and  meadow,  and  fertile  plain, 
Through  golden  months  of  the  passing  year. 


112         A    MIDSUMMER  DAY'S  DREAM. 

But  the  story  ended  abruptly  there — 

A  blue  bird  up  in  the  old  oak  tree, 

Is  pouring  forth  on  the  drowsy  air, 

A  jubilant  melody  wild  and  free. 

And  a  spider  is  running  across  the  book, 

And  a  squirrel  looks  down  with  mute  surprise, 

And  here  by  the  marge  of  the  prattling  brook, 

A  fairy  is  rubbing  her  big  brown  eyes  ! 


AT  LAST. 


AT  LAST. 

|OU  will  fold  your  hands, 
While  fond  ones  weep, 
And  with  weary  eyes 
Will  go  to  sleep 
At  last — 

Thinking  perhaps  of  the  morrow 
Or  the  years  now  past. 

But  the  morning  after, 
When  the  light  draws  near, 
Will  your  thought  go  back 
To  the  old  days  here, 

Now  past  ? — 

We  will  not  know  in  our  sorrow, 
But  we  shall  at  last — 

At  last  ! 


114  ON  THE    CAMPUS. 


ON  THE  CAMPUS. 

JO  faces  now,  that  erst  were  known 
Along  the  gray  old  seat  of  stone, 
But  figures  weird,  and  gaunt  and  old, 
Rise  strangely  up  and  frowning  fade 
Before  me  through  the  cloistered  shade. 
By  arch,  and  corridor,  and  gate, 
Strange  faces  grow  from  out  the  gloom 
That  once  passed  by  in  solemn  state, 
Now  long  years  buried  in  the  tomb. 
Here  Horace  seems  to  loiter  by, 
Half  love,  half  satire  in  his  eye, 
With  old  Anacreon,  whose  lyre 
Love  ripples  in  its  golden  strings, 
Faints  with  the  ardor  of  his  fire, 
And  dies  among  its  echoings. 
There  Sappho,  ever  fair  and  young, 
Plucks  with  low  eyes  some  fancy  sweet 


ON  THE  CAMPUS.  115 

That  coyly  hides  itself  among 
The  tufted  grasses  at  her  feet. 
While  yonder  stretched  upon  the  green, 
An  old  white-bearded  man  is  seen 
With  anxious  face,  and  troubled  look, 
Scanning  the  pages  of  a  book. 
Beside  him  on  his  elbow  propped 
Another  form  its  book  has  dropped, 
And  from  the  lips  the  smoke-wreaths  rise 
And  skyward  lead  the  dreamy  eyes. 
The  first  then  turning  grave  and  slow 
With  accents  neither  high  nor  low, 
But  in  the  middle  voice,  exclaimed  : 

"  O  bard  by  seven  cities  claimed, 

It  aches  itself  my  weary  head, 

To  find  out  what  I  really  said 

Though  once  I  wrote  it  plain.     Can  you 

Tell  me  the  thought  you  had  in  view 

In  '  bridge  of  battles  ? '     Was  it  '  bridge  ' 

Or  did  you  truly  write  it  '  ridge  ? ' 

Bold  metaphors  I  ween  must  needs 


Il6  ON  THE  CAMPUS. 

Be  used  to  chronicle  bold  deeds, 
When  Hector's  plume  exultant  seeks 
Encounter  with  our  father  Greeks, 
Or  A]ax  bids  his  friends  deploy 
Along  the  windy  plains  of  Troy." 

The  bard  shook  out  his  long  white  hair, 
And  said  : 

"  I  little  know,  or  care 
What  Scalliger  or  Poppo  wrote — 
You'll  find  it  all  in  Anthon's  note. 
Euripides,  take  my  advice 
I'm  Homer,  lucid  and  concise. 
For  centuries  I  groaned  and  grew 
Distracted  more  and  more  like  you. 
Whenever  I  was  certain  quite 
Of  what  I'd  truly  meant  to  write, 
Some  new  edition  would  come  out 
And  plunge  me  deeper  into  doubt — 
And  so  Euripides,  I  say 
Let  commentators  have  their  way. 


ON  THE  CAMP  US.  1 1 7 

They've  learned  their  trade,  these  men  and  know  it. 

They  want  no  guidance  from  the  poet  ; 

And  if  you  wish  to  read  your  plays 

With  easy  mind,  these  summer  days, 

Drop  Leipsic  texts,  my  trusty  crony, 

And  do  as  I  do — use  a  pony. 

That's  what  I've  learned. — And  that  is  why 

I'm  blowing  smoke-wreaths  to  the  sky." 

Thus  with  full  heart  revisiting 

The  halls  where  hope  and  friendship  grew, 

Though  Time  may  still  his  triumphs  bring, 

This  moral  still  I  sadly  drew— 

Whatever  braver  poets  sing, 

The  old  is  better  than  the  new  ! 


1 8  AN  ANGEL'S  FLIGHT. 


AN  ANGEL'S  FLIGHT. 


shadows  pass  across  the  moon 
IThe  solemn  night  is  strangely  still, 
The  heart-throbs  of  the  sleeping  June, 
Do  all  the  soul  of  beauty  thrill. 
Three  angels  —  on  each  brow  a  star  — 
High  heaven's  arch  are  flying  through, 
But  one  speeds  downward  peering  far 
Across  the  crystal  depths  of  blue. 

Within  a  cottage  lies  the  dead, 
Upon  the  face  a  starry  glow  — 
Tread  softly  !  for  the  spirit  fled 
Scarcely  a  moment's  time  ago.  — 
A  fair-haired  boy  stands  at  the  pane, 
And  sees  a  star  sweep  down  the  sky  — 
1  Mamma  is  coming  back  again  "  — 
I  heard  the  little  darling  cry. 


WHAT  IS  LIFE?  1 19 


WHAT  IS  LIFE  ? 

(INSPIRED  BY  THE  TEACHINGS  OF  ZAMBRI  THE  PARSEE.) 

|AID  the  Poet  folding  his  filmy  wings 

"  Life  is  the  song  that  my  loved  one  sings  ! '' 

"  Evolution  is  Life  to  the  uttermost  age  !  " 

Said  the  Scientist  growling  and  bristling  with  rage. 

"  It  is  Vita!  " — the  erudite  Scholar  replied, 
As  he  gnawed  on  a  Chaldaic  root  at  his  side. 

Which  the  queer  Antiquarian  met  with  a  laugh, 
As  he  showed  his  white  teeth  at  an  old  epitaph. 

"  My    friends," — the    Philosopher  croaked  from  a 

tree, 
1  "Pis  a  frightful  disease  ! — we   are   symptoms,  "- 

said  he. 


120  WHAT  IS  LIFE? 

"  Pooh-pooh  !  " — hissed   the  Doctor   uncoiling   for 

strife, 
"  When   we  remove   symptoms,  what   then   pray,  is 

life  ?  " 

l 

"  'Tis  a  thistle  " — the  Warrior  sententiously  brayed, 
"  Something  pleasant  to  take  " — and  he  searched  for 

a  blade. 

"  All  wrong  !  " — cawed  the  Lawyer — "  To  live  is  To 

be!  " 
And  he  opened  his  bill  for  the  usual  fee. 

"  Life  " — chattered    the    Sage — "  why,    of    course, 

protoplasm  !  " 
And  curling  his  tail  round  a  branch,  had  a  spasm. 

The  Nonagenarian  trumpeted  loud 

That  Life  was  a  cradle,  some  dust,  and  a  shroud  ! 


THE  INQUISITION. 


THE  INQUISITION. 

|ENEATH  huge  granite  walls, 

In  the  heart  of  the  Appenines, 
Where  the  sunlight  never  falls, 
And  the  moonlight  never  shines, 
Where  the  howl  of  the  wolf  is  heard 
In  the  depths  of  the  forest  trees, 
But  never  the  song  of  bird 
Is  borne  on  the  morning  breeze, 
With  its  gates  of  triple  locks, 
And  its  iron-windowed  wall, 
Black-ribbed  in  the  mighty  rocks, 
Stands  the  Inquisition  Hall. 

Like  fires  from  Vulcan's  forge 
That  flash  through  smoky  skies, 
From  the  gates  on  cliff  and  gorge, 
A  red  light  leaps  and  dies. 


122  THE  INQUISITION. 

From  a  chamber  grim  and  black, 
Through  the  windows  barred  with  steel, 
Comes  a  cry  from  the  creaking  rack, 
And  a  groan  from  the  turning  wheel, 
As  men  with  a  hurried  tread, 
Are  tightening  belt  and  brace, 
And  Death  from  an  iron  bed 
Looks  up  with  a  ghastly  face  ! 

The  cruel  monk  Felician 
In  sable  gown  and  hood, 
At  the  Court  of  the  Inquisition 
Before  his  victim  stood. 
And  the  hot  and  angry  glow, 
From  the  furnace  flames  below, 
Through  that  chamber  black  and  old, 
Fell  full  on  the  captive  there, 
With  eyes  upturned  in  prayer, 
And  a  look  of  calm  submission 
On  his  features  white  and  cold. 

Only  another  martyr 
For  his  heresy  to  bleed, 


THE  INQUISITION.  123 

Who  had  spurned  with  scorn  to  barter 

His  conscience  for  a  creed  ! 

Fill  up  the  naming  cresset, 

With  cruel  heart  and  cold, 

And  with  blood-stained  fingers  bless  it 

In  the  tenets  that  ye  hold  ! 

O  sombre-browed  confessors, 

Did  thus  the  Master  do 

That  ye  dare  to  judge  transgressors 

By  the  laws  that  govern  you  ? 

Before  them  firm  and  fearless 
Francisco  Carro  stands, 
With  features  pale  and  tearless, 
To  hear  the  Court's  commands. 
Shadowed  in  gloom  behind  him, 
The  torturers  in  black, 
Await  with  ropes  to  bind  him 
To  the  malefactor's  rack. 
But  ere  the  judge  had  spoken, 
Out  stood  the  victim  there, 
With  voice  subdued  and  broken, 
Half  defiance,  half  despair  : 


124  THE  INQUISITION. 

"  Most  potent  worthies  hear  me — 

Ye  to  whom  monarchs  bow — 

But  think  not  that  I  fear  ye 

Or  seek  your  pardon  now  ! 

Where  the  peaceful  moonlight  glistens 

By  the  shores  to  me  so  dear, 

There's  one  to-night  that  listens 

For  a  voice  she  will  not  hear. 

There's  one  who  weeping  lingers 

By  an  anxious  mother's  knee, 

And  clasps  her  pleading  fingers 

In  prayerful  love  for  me. 

And  behold  upon  the  morrow, 

In  your  torture-hall  in  state, 

Ye  will  care  not  for  the  sorrow 

Of  that  widowed  mother's  fate. 

But  mark  me,  haughty  master, 

This  heart  will  not  deny 

Its  faith,  nor  stern  disaster 

Declare  its  life  a  lie  ! 

Did  thus  the  Holy  Teacher 

Reveal  His  gentle  life, 


THE  INQUISITION.  12$ 

That  ye  crush  your  fellow-creature 
In  your  bigotry  and  strife  ?  " 

Around  that  deep  rotunda, 

Sat  men  in  grim  attire, 

Who  heard  his  words  with  wonder, 

Whose  hearts  were  filled  with  ire. 

But  one  whose  teeth  in  anger 

Were  set  with  tiger-hate — 

As  the  chains  with  deafening  clangor 

Rang  down  the  prison  gate — 

Strode  forth,  a  mighty  giant, 

And  the  man's  assumption  cursed, 

Who  spurned  him  back,  defiant, 

And  bade  them  do  their  worst ! 

Now  fiercely  those  around  him 

Had  hurled  the  victim  back, 

And  with  lightning  speed  had  bound  him 

At  a  signal  to  the  rack. 

And  with  cruel  torture  straightway 

The  huge  weights  slowly  fell, 


126  THE  INQUISITION. 

While  flickering  flames  crept  nearer, 
With  a  bluish  glare  and  clearer, 
When,  from  the  distant  gateway, 
Loud  clanged  the  castle  bell ! 

At  once  the  grim  Confession 
Had  stayed  the  massive  wheel, 
As  through  the  spectral  arches 
In  stately  order  marches 
A  Capuchin  procession 
From  the  Convent  of  Castile. 
But  scarcely  had  it  entered 
The  weird  and  lurid  glare, 
Ere  round  its  chief  it  centred, 
With  a  strange  and  solemn  air. 
Aside  they  flung  their  vesture, 
And  in  that  lurid  gloom, 
Men  stood  with  threatening  gesture, 
In  helmet  and  in  plume  ! 

Swift  in  their  places  shifted, 
The  massive  bars  slid  back, 
And  a  senseless  form  was  lifted 


THE  INQUISITION. 

From  the  torture  of  the  rack. 
And  one  with  features  rigid, 
Kneeling  with  quickened  breath 
Above  that  figure  frigid 
In  the  chill  embrace  of  death, 
Upraised  his  blade  before  him, 
And  swore  upon  its  cross, 
By  the  sainted  one  who  bore  him, 
To  avenge  a  brother's  loss  ! 
Then  to  the  chief  Felician, 
He  crossed  the  castle  floor, 
And  bade  his  Inquisition 
Fling  wide  each  dungeon  door  ! 

Stout  men-at-arms  obeyed  him 

And  the  inner  gates  swung  back, 

To  a  scene  whose  sight  dismayed  him 

In  those  hollow  walls  and  black. 

No  stubborn  creed  or  error 

In  penance  might  atone 

For  the  cold  and  nameless  terror 

That  chilled  those  walls  of  stone. 


THE  INQUISITION. 

For  in  the  cells  before  them, 
Were  shapes  in  ghastly  crowds, 
With  the  pall  of  darkness  o'er  them, 
And  clad  in  iron  shrouds  ! 


Then  spake  the  brave  Castilian 

To  the  cowled  confessors  there, 

While  shadows  fled  affrighted, 

As  the  gloomy  halls  were  lighted  :— 

"  Though  your  council  awes  the  million 

There  are  men  ye  cannot  dare  ! 

Your  fate  behold  before  ye 

Your  crimes  may  man  forget — 

Doomed  to  the  fate  ye  cherish 

For  others,  thus  ye  perish 

And  these  walls  shall  crumble  o'er  ye, 

Ere  another  sun  shall  set  ! 

For  thus  O  mighty  brothers 

Ye  taught  the  lesson  true, 

To  do  what  unto  others 

Ye  would  have  them  do  for  you  !  " 


THE  INQUISITION.  129 

From  the  prison-walled  Confession, 
From  the  Abbot's  stern  abode, 
That  night  a  grim  procession 
Wound  down  the  mountain  road. 
And  where  the  moonlight  drifted 
Above  them  through  the  trees, 
A  cloud  of  smoke  was  lifted 
And  borne  upon  the  breeze. 
And  lo,  where  flames  ascending 
In  wrath  did  writhe  and  toss 
Like  stormy  hosts  contending — 
Was  the  shadow  of  a  cross  ! 


3°  EGLANTINE. 


EGLANTINE. 

|H  me  !  so  many  years  ago, 

It  seemeth  like  a  dream  of  mine — 
My  little  one  with  cheeks  aglow, 
Merrily  dancing  to  and  fro, 
Through  shade,  and  shine,  and  eglantine — 
Ah  me  !  so  many  years  ago, 
It  seemeth  but  a  dream  of  mine  ! 

It  seemeth  but  a  dream  to  me, 
With  all  the  birds  about  the  door, 
And  leafy  glimpse  of  rock  and  tree, 
And  laughter  ringing  cheerily, 
As  in  the  happy  days  of  yore  ; 
It  seemeth  but  a  dream  to  me, 
With  all  the  birds  about  the  door. 

The  winsome  pansy  tipt  its  hood 

Of  purple,  through  the  creeping  vine, 


EGLANTINE.  1 31 

And  slanting  through  the  leafy  wood 
A  swaying,  golden  ladder  stood 
Of  shade,  and  shine,  and  eglantine, 
And  sweet  the  dreamy  solitude, 
And  drowsy  shade  of  beech  and  pine  ! 


But  now  the  house  so  sad  and  still 
Is  old,  and  falling  to  decay — 
The  forest  path,  the  droning  mill, 
The  spring  where  oft  we  drank  our  fill, 
Together,  many  a  summer  day, 
No  longer  now  with  pleasure  thrill, 
But  like  a  dream  have  passed  away. 

But  yonder  through  the  twinkling  trees, 
Where  stands  the  forest  gray  and  old, 
'Twixt  mountain  skies,  and  forest  seas, 
Is  swaying  lightly  in  the  breeze, 
A  shifting  ladder's  bridge  of  gold  ; 
And  through  the  mist  the  birds  and  bees 
Fly  in  and  out  the  forest  old. 


132  EGLANTINE. 

And  sometimes  when  the  day  is  done, 
And  evening  skies  are  all  aglow, 
Far  up  the  bridge  of  mist  and  sun, 
I  seem  to  hear  my  angel  one 
In  accents  singing  sweet  and  low, 
As,  ere  her  life  was  scarce  begun 
I  heard  her  sing  so  long  ago  ! 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  133 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

IJOW  come  the  Indian-summer  days 

When  violet  colors  fill  the  seas, 
When  ghostly  horsemen  storm  the  trees 
With  fibrous  banners,  and  a  haze 
Of  gold  high-walls  the  hollow  hills. 
When  goblets  brimmed  with  sparkling  dew 
Are  poised  by  elves,  and  to  the  rills 
The  sprites  and  warlocks  bid  adieu. 
When  airy  cradles  swing  in  pines 
Dew-spangled  through  the  pendent  vines  ; 
When  haunted  ruins,  gray  and  old, 
Are  mellowed  in  a  mist  of  gold, 
When  o'er  the  crumbling  walls  grotesque 
The  vines  are  wrought  in  arabesque, 
And  through  the  woods  the  quiet  eves 
The  footfalls  sound  in  crush  of  leaves  ; 
When  tented  witches  warm  the  wine 


134  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

That  thrills  the  air  with  joy  divine, 
And  silence  dreams  to  whispers  low 
Of  some  sweet  days  of  long  ago, 
When  yellow  bees  sang  down  the  thyme 
Their  burden  of  a  summer  clime  ; 
And  from  the  meadows  hot  and  dry, 
Was  heard  the  twang  of  harvest-fly, 
And  gossip  of  the  bubbling  brooks  ; 
And  elbow  deep  in  sunny  nooks, 
You  read  a  page,  in  quiet  dale, 
Of  some  serene  Arabian  tale. 


VERS  DE  SOCIETE 


(Face  p.  134.) 


A  FOREST  IDYL.  135 


A  FOREST  IDYL. 

BLANCHE.       MABEL. 

Blanche. 

|HIS  is  the  spot,  beneath  these  shady  beeches 
Close  by  the  lake  we'll   here  our  luncheon 

spread, 

The  blue  waves  glistening  on  the  sandy  reaches, 
The 'forest  thrilled  with  bird-songs  overhead. 

Mabel. 

Here  in  the  shade  we'll  dine  in  sweet  seclusion  ; 
And  then  a  glorious  sail  upon  the  lake — 
How  nice  it  is  away  from  man's  intrusion, 
To  be  one's  self  and  some  true  comfort  take  ! 

Blanche. 

There's  Aubrey  Vane  how  much  he'd  like  to  share  it, 
Our  proud  Hyperion  with  his  lofty  air — 
This  cake's  delicious  with  crushed  ice  and  claret, 
So  far  away  from  dusty  Burnham  Square. 


A  FOREST  IDYL. 

0  here  to  sit  beneath  beech-branches  spreading 
Their  cool  shade  with  the  sunlight  flickering  down — 
You  know  the  Vernons  are  to  have  a  wedding 
Sometime  next  Autumn  at  their  house  in  town  ? 

Mabel. 

Why  yes,  they've  been  engaged  a  year  and  over, 
They  met  last  season  at  the  Springs,  one  day — 
The  groom-to-be  is  really  such  a  rover — 
But  quite  attentive  to  \usfiancte. 

And  such  a  grand  trousseau  I  hear  is  ordered, 
The  dress  a  satin  with  a  princesse  skirt, 
Three   yards   of  trail  with    snow-white   roses    bor 
dered — 
Just  think,  dear  Blanche,  and  Fannie  such  a  flirt ! 

Blanche. 

1  know,   and   who'd  have  thought   that   she  would 

marry 

When  last  we  met  at  Narragansett  Pier, 
But  all  the  girls  were  there  in  love  with  Harry — 
Behold  this  chow-chow — what  a  feast  is  here  ! 


A  FOREST  ID  YL.  I 

Mable. 

Indeed,  in  wedding  handsome  Harry  Percy 
I  think  that  Fan  at  last  has  found  her  mate, 
He's  rich,  and  talented,  and  handsome — Mercy  ! 
There  goes  a  spider  right  across  my  plate  ! 

Blanche. 
I  wonder  where  Ned  Varden  is — 

Mabel. 

Out  boating — 
I  heard  him  say  last  night  he'd  try  an  oar. 

Blanche. 

Then  possibly  he  may  be  near  us  floating — 
We'd  better  go  more  inland  from  the  shore. 

Mabel. 

How  tiresome  are  their  hum-drum  conversations 
At  Germans,  kettledrums  and  masquerades, 
Compared  with  those  how  sweet  the  recreations 
Here  in  the  forest's  deep  delightful  glades  ! 

Blanche. 

With  nature's  glorious  temple  o'er  us  bending, 
With  drifts  of  music  floating  o'er  the  lake, 


138  A   FOREST  IDYL. 

Sweet  voice  of  birds  and  surge  of  waters  blend 
ing— 
O  heaven  preserve  us  ! — there's  a  horrid  snake  ! 

Mabel. 

Where  shall  we  go  ?  — we  cannot  leave  our  hamper 
Here  in  the  woods  with  bugs  and  snakes,  O  dear  ! 
What  if  it  rains  ? — a  most  unpleasant  damper 
'Twould  be  upon  our  jolly  banquet  here  ! 

Blanche. 

How  dark  it  grows  above  the  thick  horizon — 
O,  from  this  rock  there's  such  a  splendid  view — 
The  grandest  sight  that  ever  you  laid  eyes  on, 
See  how  those  white-caps  lift  above  the  blue  ! 

Mabel. 

Come,  let  us  go  to  some  retreat  that's  safer, — 
Dear  me  !  I  wish  we'd  asked  them,  after  all  ; 
They  both  had  really  no  excuse  to  stay  for, 
We  hinted  that  there  might  come  up  a  squall ! 

Blanche. 

No,  no,  dear  Mabel — we  would  only  quarrel, 
Ned  Varden  is  so  strangely  over-nice, 


A   FOREST  JDYL.  139 

We'd  have  to  pucker  up  our  lips  with  sorrel, 
And  look  demure,  and  be  as  still  as  mice. 

Mabel. 
No  swinging  on  the  overhanging  branches — 

Blanche. 
No  romping  through  the  knee-deep  clover  then — • 

Mabel. 

But  Mabels  prim,  and  sober-minded  Blanches, 
To  wait  upon  two  vain,  conceited  men. 

Blanche. 

Is  that  a  boat  upon  the  lake  I  wonder  ? 
'Tis  but  a  speck  upon  the  water — hark  ! 
I  thought  I  heard  a  distant  peal  of  thunder — 
The  sky  is  surely  growing  very  dark  ! 

\  Mabel. 

What  shall  we  do  ? 

Blanche. 

Hie  to  some  mansion  spacious, 
I  see  a  house  through  yonder  forest  glade — 


140  A   FOREST  IDYL, 

Mabel. 

Quick  then,  and  gather  up  the  dishes — Gracious  ! 
A  pinch-bug's  crawling  in  the  marmalade  ! 

Blanche. 

O  this  is  dreadful  ! — what  with  fun  and  frolic 
And  feast  enough  for  half-a-dozen  beaux, 
Not  one  of  them  with  any  taste  bucolic 
But  really  might  have  joined  us  if  he  chose. 

Mabel. 

We  hinted  that  we  might  expect  their  presence, 
But  O  the  men  are  blind  as  bats,  you  know — 

Blanche. 

If   they   were   here,  they'd   rather  hunt  for  pheas 
ants, 
Than  on  the  lake  to  have  a  quiet  row. 

Mabel. 

There  comes  the  rain  ! — I'm  sure  I  felt  it  sprinkle, 
We'll  both  be  drenched  ere  shelter  can  be  had— 
The  storm  will  drive  us  like  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle 
Into  the  mountains  thin  and  poorly  clad  ! 


A    FOREST  IDYL.  14! 

Blanche. 

Ye  fauns  and  satyrs  what  a  lonesome  dinner 
Ye  revel  over  in  your  wild  domain  ! — 
But  look  dear  Mabel  ! — sure  as  I'm  a  sinner 
There's  Ned  and  Aubrey  coming  down  the  lane  ! 


142  REVERIE. 


REVERIE. 

SHIMMER  of  satins  and  pearls 

A  rustle  of  silk  in  the  hall — 
And  I  wait  for  the  dearest  of  girls 
Attired  for  the  Charity  Ball. 
I  watch  for  her  coming  and  sigh, 
As  she  runs  with  a  radiant  face, 
To  kiss  her  old  father  goodbye, 
In  her  glory  of  jewels  and  lace. 

The  moonlight  shines  bright  on  the  lawn, 

The  carriage  awaits  at  the  door, 

A  slam— and  my  lady  is  gone, 

And  the  hurry  and  worry  are  o'er. 

Ah  me  !  what  a  change  since  the  day 

Of  Sir  Roger  of  goodly  repute, 

When  we  danced  in  the  old-fashioned  way, 

To  the  music  of  fiddle  and  flute. 


REVERIE.  H3 

How  the  rafters  all  echoed  with  fun  ! 
Aye  !  those  were  the  days  of  romance — 
And  bless  me  !  how  courtly  each  one 
Was  in  times  when  to  dance  meant  to  dance. 
Jenny  Lind  too  was  then  all  the  rage, 
Castle  Garden  with  lights  was  ablaze — 
'Twas  really  a  musical  age, 
And  what  music  there  was  in  those  days  ! 

When  concerts  were  famous  of  song, 

And  Mario's  voice  was  divine, 

When  rapt  was  the  listening  throng 

In  singing  enchantingly  fine. 

Old  ballads,  old  customs,  and  friends — 

What  fond  recollections  are  stirred, 

What  glory  of  sentiment  blends 

With  the  songs  that  no  longer  are  heard  ! 

How  well  I  remember  the  night 
Of  the  famous  Hungarian  ball — 
When  of  beauty  and  fashion  the  sight 
Was  a  wonderful  one  at  the  hall. 


144  REVERIE. 

And  well  I  remember  the  pain 
It  gave  me  to  pick  up  a  fan- 
In  my  tight-fitting  coat  I  was  vain— 
Too  vain — for  a  corpulent  man  ! 

And  now  at  reception  or  fete, 
What  changes  the  fashions  reveal, 
Money-musk  is  to-day  out  of  date, 
And  the  grand  old  Virginia  Reel  ; 
The  Tempest  no  longer  is  known, 
Speed  the  Plough  is  a  thing  of  the  past — • 
I  declare  how  the  seasons  have  flown 
Since  we  danced  the  old  favorites  last  ! 

I  lounge  in  my  library  chair, 

While  the  flickering  embers  go  out — 

As  I  cannot  myself,  I'm  aware, 

Laid  up  as  I  am  with  the  gout. 

But  like  foam  of  the  champagne  rose 

Old  memories  sparkle  to-night, 

And  there  lingers  a  fragrant  bouquet 

Of  the  days  that  were  filled  with  delight. 


MY  PIPE  AND  I.  145 


MY  PIPE  AND  I. 

SOME    REFLECTIONS    IN    THE     CHIMNEY-CORNER. 

JLD  pipe,  gray-headed  and  serene, 

Thou  Friar  Tuck  of  ancient  glory, 
What  realms  together  we  have  seen, 
What  lands  explored  of  pleasant  story  ! 
And  if  thy  cheek  be  somewhat  scarred, 
And  that  poor  nose  of  thine  be  broken, 
Thy  jolly  face,  albeit  marred, 
Is  still  of  royal  cheer  a  token. 
Together  by  the  drowsy  glare 
Of  winter  faggots  blithely  burning, 
We've  conned  such  lessons  here  and  there, 
As  surely  might  be  worth  the  learning. 

We've  seen  men  enter  glad  of  heart 
Aladdin's  halls  with  lamps  enchanted, 
Have  watched  them  silently  depart 


146  MY  PIPE  AND  I. 

Full  oft  without  a  favor  granted  ; 
Have  learned  that  piety  to  pass 
Must  needs  be  clothed  in  goodly  raiment 
To  worship  well,  each  soul,  alas  ! 
Must  stand  its  share  of  ready  payment. 
Have  found  that  men  are  wiser  far, 
Who  strive  to  make  each  other  better, 
And  seen  how  eager  creatures  are 
To  draw  a  sword,  or  forge  a  fetter. 

We've  learned  that  murder  is  a  crime 

If  poverty  stands  in  the  docket, 

But  that  the  law  will  yield  in  time 

To  him  who  pleads  with  well  filled  pocket. 

When  at  our  doors  the  dying  moan 

Is  heard  from  lips  of  starving  sinners, 

We  pray  the  Lord  in  doleful  tone 

To  bless  our  own  abundant  dinners. 

And  while  our  cities  teem  with  those 

Whose  rags  betoken  sad  conditions, 

Without  a  stint  the  money  goes 

By  thousands  to  the  Foreign  Missions. 


MY  PIPE  AND  I.  147 

We  know  that  for  some  purpose  strange 
There  still  exists  the  scandal-monger, 
Doomed  for  a  certain  time  to  range 
The  country  through  to  sate  his  hunger, 
That  churches  oft  are  marts  of  trade, 
With  games  of  chance  at  times  the  fashion, 
That  men  care  not  how  money's  made 
While  cheating  is  the  ruling  passion. 
That  folks  pretend  to  be  devout 
And  church  dissensions  strive  to  kindle, 
That  others  pray  in  church  and  out 
While  plotting  some  infernal  swindle. 

We've  found  that  those  we  trusted  most 
Who  seemed  at  heart  such  true  believers, 
Have  proved  to  be  a  sorry  host 
Of  robbers,  knaves,  and  base  deceivers. 
We've  learned  that  bigotry  and  cant 
Have  each  an  influence  pernicious, 
That  fashions  grow  extravagant, 
And  men  become  more  avaricious  ; 
That  nothing  ever  can  be  done 


148  MY  PIPE  AND  7. 

To  change  the  knowledge  of  the  knowing — 
And  that  we  care  not — neither  one — 
Old  pipe  you're  out — and  I  am  going. 


FLIR  TA  TION.  1 49 


FLIRTATION. 


1  Ah,  when  the  thick  night  flares  with  drooping  torches, 
Ah,  when  the  crush-room  empties  of  the  swarm, 
Pleasant  the  hand  that  in  the  gusty  porches 
Light  as  a  snowflake  settles  on  your  arm,1'1 

Dobson. 


COUSIN    GEORGE. COUSIN     CLARA. THE    COUNT. 

THE    MARQUISE. 

I. 

Clara. 
|ET  us  to  yonder  arbor  go 

Away  from  the  glare  of  the  chandelier, 
Where  to  the  music  sweet  and  low, 
I  will  tell  you  about  the  Count,  my  dear. 

George. 

No,  here  in  the  shrubbery,  just  us  two, 
Where  the  moonlight  falls  through  the  trailing  vine  ; 


150  FLIRTATION. 

I'm  tired  of  dancing, — aren't  you  ? 

We'll  discuss  our  friends  o'er  the  cake  and  wine. 

Clara,    (absently). 

But  isn't  he  splendid  ? — such  heavenly  eyes  ! 
And  the  badge  he  wears — for  his  rank  you  know- 
A  ribbon  with  brilliants  of  gorgeous  size, 
That  the  Emperor  gave  him  long  ago. 

George. 

O  yes,  I  remember — but  tell  me,  love, 
Were  you  vexed  thus  coldly  to  pass  me  by, 
On  his  arm — 

Clara. 

Why,  what  are  you  thinking  of  ? 
'Twas  a  trifle  rude,  I  will  not  deny, 
But  I  was  enchanted,  sans  pense'es, 
By  the  glowing  language  in  which  he  told 
Of  his  home  in  Italy,  where  they  say 
His  cellars  are  filled  with  heaps  of  gold  ! 

George. 
Heaps  of  rubbish  ! — for  a  louis  d'or, 


FLIRTATION.  1 

He'd  mortgage  his  all — and  a  woman's  hand 

He'd  gladly  exchange  his  title  for 

Did  it  place  a  bank-book  at  his  command. 

Clara. 
He  wouldn't  ! 

George. 
He  would  ! 

Clara. 

Hush,  George,  my  dear, 
A  nobleman's  honor  is  quite  piqut 
And  should  he  happen  to  overhear — 

George. 
He  could  turn  his  head  the  other  way. 

Clara. 
I  wouldn't  be  jealous  ! 

George. 

Miss  Stubborn  I'm  not — 
But  people  will  talk — they  know  we're  engaged — 


152  FLIRTATION. 

Clara. 

But  surely  Sir  Spiteful  it  isn't  the  spot 
In  which  like  a  bear  to  become  enraged. 

George. 

I  simply  ask  you  not  to  betray 
Such  a  strange  predilection  for  Count  Chalieu 
With  his  beautiful  eyes,  (he  squints  by  the  way,) 
And  his  wonderful  badge  ;  (wears  corsets  too  !) 

Clara. 
I  wouldn't  be  foolish  if  I  were  you. 

George. 
O,  do  as  you  please — 

Clara. 

I  would  have  you  know 
That  I'm  not  quite  yet  a  tyrant's  slave, 
To  nod  at  his  beck,  or  to  do  so,  so, 
Or  to  bend  at  his  feet  and  his  pardon  crave. 
Obey  his  orders,  now  here,  now  there, 
To  plead  for  a  smile,  to  receive  a  frown, 
And  to  hear  him  state  with  a  pompous  air 


FLIR  TA  TION.  I  5  3 

That  he  wants  his  slippers  and  dressing-gown  ; 
To  fill  up  his  horrid  old  meerschaum — faugh  ! 
And  if  one  should  chat  with  a  former  beau 
In  the  street,  on  the  drive,  at  the  opera — pshaw  ! 
She  wouldn't  pay  for  it — O  no — no  ! 

George. 

Clara,  you  wrong  me  in  talking  so — 
My  honor,  dear  girl,  I  shall  always  hold 
Above  reproach,  and  you  ought  to  know 
That  it  cannot  be  flimsily  bought  and  sold, 
The  favor  I  asked  you  was  surely  small, 
But  I  will  not  press  it — no  matter  how 
You  have  made  me  suffer — 

Clara. 

After  the  ball 

I  will  talk  to  you  dear,  but  I  cannot  now — 
You  are  easily  hurt — and  had  better  go 
And  bask  in  some  silly  woman's  glance, 
Who  will  be  to  your  taste  quite  comme  il  fant  ; 
But  now  I'm  engaged  for  the  coming  dance. 


154  FLIRTATION. 

II. 

(An  hour  later — The  Count  and  Clara  on  the  veranda 
overlooking  a  moonlit  terraced] 

The  Count. 

Tis  a  charming  night — it  would  almost  seem 
Like  the  dreamy  nights  'neath  a  Southern  moon, 
Where  the  twinkling  lamps  on  the  waters  gleam, 
As  you  look  from  the  porch  on  the  wide  lagoon, 
And  hear  the  voice  of  the  boatmen  call, 
Or  the  chanted  song  to  the  dipping  oar, 
While  the  moonbeams  down  through  the  arches  fall 
In  snow-white  drifts  on  the  palace  floor. 

Clara,  (deeply  interested). 
Beautiful  Venice  ! 

(After  a  pause.} 
Do  you  know  I  dream 
Of  its  mystic  nights,  and  its  sunset  days, 
Of  its  tinkling  lutes,  and  the  doves  that  seem 
On  the  church  of  St.  Mark  to  sound  its  praise  ? 
Of  its  balconies  hung  with  cloth-of-gold — 


FLIRTATION.  1 55 

The  Count. 
Shy  looks  at  mass  with  its  artless  maids — 

Clara. 
Its  winding  galleries  dim  and  old — 

The  Count. 
Moonlight  flirtations,  and  serenades — 

Clara. 

And  O  the  sea — the  beautiful  sea  ! 
With  its  flash  of  sail  in  the  Western  sun — 
When  the  doves  fly  home,  and  the  revelry 
And  the  masquerade  is  but  just  begun  ! 

The  Count. 

And  stars  like  lilies  upon  the  breast 
Of  the  slumbering  waters  rise  and  fall, 
And  happy  the  woman— thrice  happy  and  blest — 
Who  can  look  from  the  porch  of  her  palace  hall, 
And  know  that  its  grandeur  is  all  her  own, 
That  Venice  is  hers  with  its  lion  and  dove, 
As  it  lordly  sits  on  its  granite  throne 
With  its  swirl  of  waters  and  songs  of  love. 


FLIRTATION. 

Clara. 

To  a  Southern  maid  it  would  be  sublime 
Whose  home  was  Italy — 

The  Count. 
True,  indeed  ! 

And  I  fancy  the  maid  of  another  clime 
Would  like  the  picture — 

Clara. 

She  might  not  lead 
A  lonelier  life  on  an  Afric  shore 
In  the  horrid  hut  of  an  Ashantee 
If  that  Southern  life  should  yield  no  more 
Than  a  palace  beside  a  romantic  sea. 

The  Count. 
But  what  if  love  should  attend  her  there  ? 

Clara,  (reflectingly). 

Oh,  some  might  like  it — and — some  might  not- 
Love  turns  bleak  walls  to  a  marble  glare 
In  a  frontier  lodge,  or  a  sea- side  cot — 
Rough  stones  into  pavements  polished  fine — 


FLIRTATION.  l 

Wild  vines  into  curtains  of  rich  brocade, 
Or  damask  in  all  its  golden  shine — 
But  (wearily} 

— better  than  all  is  a  rich  old  maid  ! 

The  Count. 

In  the  coldest  of  hearts  love  kindles  its  flame — 
Behold  the  Marquise  in  the  garden  here 
On  the  arm  of  a  lover — she  said  the  same, 
But  she  wedded  her  husband  within  a  year, 
And  survives  the  Marquis  now  three  years  dead. 
Has  a  castle  at  Pau — vast  acres  of  land — 
And  a  fortune  immense  in  Spain  'tis  said — 

Clara,  (intently  peering  over  the  balcony). 

('Tis  George,  as  I  live — and — he  clasps  her  hand 
O  why  did  I  leave  him  ?  what  did  I  say — ) 

The  Count,  (continuing). 

Reputed  a  grandee's  daughter  too — 
'Tis  love  at  first  sight — ah,  well-a-day ! 
Life  is  full  of  romance — 


158  FLIRTATION. 

Clara,  (nervously  tapping  the  floor  with  her  foot). 

I  listen  to  you — 
But  I  fear  I  am  not — 

The  Count,  (starting  up). 
You  are  pale  you  are  faint — 
Clara. 

It  is  nothing  at  all — you  were  going  to  tell — 
(Oh  dear  !  it's  enough  to  provoke  a  saint  !) 
Let  us  seek  the  salon.     I  am  not — quite  well. 


III. 


( On  the  garden  terrace  by  the  fountain,     George  and 
the  Marquise?) 

The  Marquise,  (presenting  a  rose). 
Will  you  wear  this,  man  ami,  a  white  moss  rose, 
And  remember  the  meaning  it  has  for  you, 
That  under  its  leaves  you  will  not  disclose 
What  I  tell  you  ? — then  listen.     She's  truly  true — 
But  somewhat  capricious,  as  all  girls  are  ; 


FLIRTATION.  1 59 

She  fancies  you  jealous  I  think,  and  so, 
She  loves  to  carry  perhaps  too  far 
A  little  flirtation — 

George. 

But  then,  do  you  know 

This  proud  Chevalier  in  his  thin  gauze  mask, 
Whose  palace  in  fact  is  a  castle  in  Spain, 
A  Utopian  villa — 

The  Marquise. 

Pray,  why  do  you  ask  ? — 
I  think  you  are  now  in  a  cynical  vein — 
You  cannot  reter  to  the  Count  Chalieu 
Whose  fetes  are  so  splendid  on  St.  Mark's  eve 
At  his  palace  in  Venice  ?     Of  course  I  do  ! 

George. 
The  stories  about  him  do  you  believe  ? 

The  Marquise,  (laughing.) 

Why,  I  knew  the  count  in  the  days  of  old, 
Then  a  Monto  Christo  he  seemed  to  be — 


l6o  FLIRTATION. 

Whatever  he  touched  he  turned  to  gold, 

And  he  owned  vast  lands  and  had  ships  at  sea. 

George,  (dubiously). 
Then  he  is  a  count  ? 

The  Marquise. 
A  fact — 'tis  true. 

George. 
Has  a  palace  in  Venice  ? 

The  Marquise. 
He  has  indeed. 

George. 
Of  servants  a  lordly  retinue  ? 

The  Marquise. 
More  than  a  princely  house  might  need. 

George. 
I'm  surprised  at  this — 

The  Marquise. 
Why  didn't  you  know 
He's  a  Chevalier  of  the  Golden  Cross — 


FLIRTATION.  1 6 1 

In  the  Pyrenees  has  a  fine  chateau — 
In  business  schemes  never  met  with  loss — 
And  travels  for  pleasure  ? — come  let's  stroll 
On  the  moon-lit  terrace — the  night  is  warm 
And  I  know  that  waltz  would  enchant  your  soul 
Did  not  some  fair  one  possess  the  charm. 
Now  am  I  not  right  ?  (looking  up  into  his  face.) 

But  I  somehow  fear 
That  you  love  another — 

George. 
That  could  not  be. 

The  Marquise. 
You  think  she  is  still  to  your  heart  so  dear  ? 

George,  (abruptly). 
Why,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

The  Marquise. 
Oh,  it  seems  to  me 

That  your  heart  might  meet  in  the  "madding  crowd  " 
Some  other  whose  fealty  you  could  not  doubt. 


1 62  FLIRTATION. 

George,  (indignantly). 

Of  her  truth  and  devotion  I'm  justly  proud 
But  I  pray  you  Madam — 

The  Marquise,  (coaxingly). 
Let  us  not  fall  out — 

I  was  only  in  jest— we  must  still  be  friends— 
I  see  her  sweet  face  through  the  vines  above, 
Pray  seek  her  thither  and  make  amends, 
I  was  only  testing  your  strength  of  love. 

(Leaves  him  at  the  staircase  of  the  veranda^ 

George. 

(Meeting  Clara  pale  and  agitated,  leaning  against  one 
of  the  pillars  of  the  conservatory^] 

I  left  you  engaged  for  the  dance,  my  dear- 
Are  you  ill — 

Clara,  (interrupting  him). 
I  have  sent  for  my  carriage,  sir — 

George. 
And  where,  O  where  is  your  cavalier  ? 


FLIRTATION.  163 

Clara. 

If  you  mean  the  Count,  he  is  seeking  her 

La  grande  Marquise  whom  you  natter  so 

With  such  tender  grace,  and  whose  rose  you  wear — 

George. 
I'm  surprised  indeed  that  you  do  not  know — 

Clara,  (with  a  hint  of  tears). 

Whose  husband  they  say  was  a  millionaire, 
Great  nabob  prince  in  some  distant  land, 
Who  owned  a  palace  across  the  sea — 
But  I  know  it  all — you  would  seek  her  hand 
For  the  wealth  it  brings,  and  be  false  to  me  ! 

George. 

A.rtyou  aware  they  are  friends  indeed — 
The  Count  and  the  Lady — but  neither  knows 
That  the  other  deceives — both  friends  in  need. 
And  love  each  other,  as  such  love  goes  ? 
But  you  know  too  well  that  I  could  not  forget 
The  love  that  I  bear  you,  if  hope  were  dead. 


1 64  FLIR  TA  TION. 

Clara. 

And  did  I  offend  you  when  last  we  met, 
And  do  you  forgive  me  the  words  I  said  ? 

George. 

Let  all  be  forgotten — 'twas  I  that  erred — 
Let  me  hold  your  shawl — your  carnage  is  here 

Clara,  (in  the  moonlight). 

Oh,  you  are  so  rude  ! — 

*  *  #  *  % 

(  Whispering] — but  just  one  word — 
I'll  expect  you  to-morrow  at  tea,  my  dear ! 


A    WATERING-PLACE  IDYL.  165 


A  WATERING-PLACE  IDYL. 


'  So  far  beneath  your  soft  and  tender  breeding" 

Twelfth  Night. 


1ELL  here  we  are  at  last  in  clover, 

Far  from  the  city's  dust  and  din  ; 
I  thank  my  stars  the  journey's  over 
That  I  did  dread  so  to  begin  !— 
Who  was  it  on  the  front  veranda, 
That  smiled  so  sweetly  when  you  met  ? 
Was  that  young  Buckingham,  Amanda  ? — 
Why  he  was  never  in  our  set  ! 

Too  bad  we  didn't  reach  the  races — 

But  O  this  noon,  'twas  scorching  hot  ! 

I  wonder  if  we'll  meet  old  faces, 

Or  find  them  all  a  horrid  lot  ! 

I  heard  it  said  Goodhopes  was  winner — 

That  horse  on  which  Matilda  bet — 


1 66  A    WA  TERING-PLA  CE  ID  YL. 

The  Lloyds  are  here — they're  now  at  dinner — 
But  they  were  never  in  our  set  ! 

There  goes  the  Stuyvesant's  new  carriage — 
Just  come  from  France  the  other  day — 
Was  that  Miss  Paul  ? — again  her  marriage 
Has  been  postponed  a  year,  they  say. 
Am  sorry — but  she  is  so  fickle — 
And  he's  in  such  an  awful  pet  ! 
The  Pauls  were  always  in  a  pickle — 
I'm  glad  that  they're  not  in  our  set ! 

The  Bluchers  always  spend  the  season 
At  some  old  farm-house  out  of  reach — 
Indeed  for  quite  as  good  a  reason, 
The  Puffers  go  to  Brighton  Beach. 
I  do  declare  ! — why  Mr.  Hermanns  ! 
'Tis  such  an  age  since  last  we  met — 
And  all  last  winter  at  the  Germans, 
We  did  so  miss  you  in  our  set ! 

Yes — we  remain  until  September, 
If  so  ordain  the  kindly  fates — 


A    WATERING-PLACE  IDYL.  l 

The  Duncans  ? — Oh,  I  do  remember — 
I  think  they're  stopping  at  the  States. 
Good  bye — now  dear  without  appearing 
Too  rude — I  say  it  with  regret — 
Fred  Hermanns  is  so  hard  of  hearing, 
We  can't  endure  him  in  our  set ! 

You  know  his  sister  Lily  married 

The  Marquis  Cheatamseaux  at  Rome — 

But  only  with  his  lordship  tarried 

A  fortnight  ere  she  sailed  for  home. 

He  couldn't  prove — and  so  they  parted — 

His  title  to  a  coronet — - 

The  girl  was  almost  broken-hearted — 

You  know  she  wasn't  in  our  set  ! 

I  wonder  if  Miss  Vane  is  coming — 

Our  Boston  friend  of  bookish  lore, — 

So  fond  of  Kant,  and  always  humming 

An  aria  from  some  classic  score. 

Here  come  the  Lanes,  with  horses  prancing, 

And  liveried  footmen  black  as  jet ; 


1 68  A    WATERING-PLACE  IDYL. 

They  never  dance — though  fond  of  dancing- 
Unless  in  our  exclusive  set  ! 

And  Britain's  princess— what  a  pity  ! — 
Can't  come  till  August,  if  at  all — 
We'll  have  to  journey  to  the  city 
To  match  our  satins  for  the  ball. 
You  know  in  dress,  without  exception, 
There'll  be  such  rigid  etiquette  ! 
Of  course  'twill  be  a  grand  reception, 
And  quite  en  regie  with  our  set  ! 

It's  growing  dark — the  band  is  playing — 
The  shop-lights  twinkle  down  the  street — 
O  dear  ! — I  fear,  as  I  was  saying, 
That  few  have  come  we  care  to  meet  ! 
Hand  me  my  fan — this  heat  is  torrid — 
It's  hardly  time  to  worry  yet — 
But  wouldn't  it  be  downright  horrid 
Not  to  meet  any  of  our  set  ? 


TO  A  COQUETTE.  169 


TO  A  COQUETTE. 

]OU  remember  when  last  we  were  boating 

On  the  beautiful  river  below, 
Ho\v  sweet  was  our  flirting  and  floating 
Together,  a  long  time  ago  ? 
Where  the  lindens  the  avenue  shaded 
You  remember  returning  to  tea, 
When  the  light  of  the  sunset  had  faded 
You  said  you  were  tired  of  me  ? 

I  thought  you  were  charming  and  pretty, 

When  afterward,  down  at  the  train 

I  hoped  you  would  stay  in  the  city 

And  not  come  to  see  us  again. 

But  the  summers  were  bright  with  your  beauty, 

You  came  every  June  to  the  place  : 

I  told  you  (in  penance  of  duty) 

I  hated  the  sight  of  your  face  ! 


1 70  TO  A   COQUETTE. 

My  sister  you  thought  so  romantic, 
Her  love  was  so  tender  and  true  ; 
But  me  you  deemed  slow  and  pedantic, 
From  sonnets  I'd  written  to  you. 
You  remember  the  mill  in  the  meadow, 
That  stood  where  the  blue  river  ran  ? 
It  was  there  that  we  sat  in  its  shadow, 
And  the  fun  of  your  flirting  began. 

I  read  to  you  charming  romances, 

The  piano  with  fantasies  rang  ; 

You  thrilled  me  with  sweetest  of  glances. 

And  laughed  at  a  song  that  I  sang. 

I  met  you  again  in  the  city, 

You  called  me  your  villager  beau — 

I  ventured  to  say  you  were  witty, 

You  ventured  to  tell  me  to  go. 

I  remember  the  lover  that  met  you, 
One  evening  below  in  the  dell  ; 
You  left  me  abruptly — I  let  you— - 
I  couldn't  do  otherwise,  well. 
I  gave  you  a  book,  and  some  flowers, 


TO  A   COQUETTE. 

You  took  them,  and  threw  them  aside  ; 
I  know  you  don't  think  of  those  hours, 
So  thoughtless  you  are  in  your  pride. 

One  night  as  the  rain  fell  in  torrents, 
We  parted — I  held  to  my  heart — 
And  journeyed  to  Paris  and  Florence, 
And  Rome  with  its  treasures  of  art. 
I  took  neither  trinket  nor  token, 
To  trouble  my  memory  here  ; 
I  found  that  my  heart  was  unbroken, 
And  wondered  you  ever  were  dear. 

Returning  I  find  you  unmarried, 
Your  beauty's  the  same,  I  am  told — 
For  suitors  you  always  have  carried 
A  heart  that  is  icy  and  cold. 
But  come  to  the  Beeches  to-morrow — 
We're  leading  the  gladdest  of  lives  ; 
I'm  over  my  sickness  and  sorrow, 
And  will  show  you  the  sweetest  of  wives  ! 


1 7  2  WEST  POINT. 


WEST  POINT. 

Satins  and  laces  and  beautiful  faces." 

IOMMENCEMENT  eve  !— and  the  ball-room 

belle 

In  her  dazzling  beauty  was  mine  that  night, 
As  the  music  dreamily  rose  and  fell, 
And  the  waltzers  whirled  in  a  blaze  of  light. 
I  can  see  them  now  in  the  moonbeam's  glance 
Across  the  street  on  a  billowy  floor, 
That  rises  and  falls  with  the  merry  dance, 
To  a  music  that  floats  in  my  heart  once  more. 

A  long  half-hour  in  the  twilight  leaves 

Of  the  shrubbery — she  with  coquettish  face, 

And  dainty  arms  in  their  flowing  sleeves, 

\.  dream  of  satins,  and  love,  and  lace. 

In  the  splendor  there  of  her  queenly  smile, 


WEST  FOlNT.  1/3 

Tlfrough  her  two  bright  eyes  I  could  see  the  glow 
Of  cathedral  windows,  as  up  the  aisle, 
We  marched  to  a  music's  ebb  and  flow. 

All  in  a  dream  of  Commencement  eve — 
I  remember  I  awkwardly  buttoned  a  glove 
On  the  dainty  arm  in  its  flowing  sleeve, 
With  a  broken  sentence  of  hope  and  love. 
But  the  jewels  that  flashed  in  her  wavy  hair, 
And  the  beauty  that  shone  in  her  faultless  face, 
Are  all  I  recall,  as  I  struggled  there 
A  poor  gray  fly  in  a  web  of  lace. 

Yet  a  laughing,  coquettish  face  I  see, 

As  the  moonlight  falls  on  the  pavement  gray, 

And  I  hear  her  laugh  in  the  melody 

Of  the  waltz's  music  across  the  way, 

And  I  kept  the  glove,  so  dainty  and  small 

That  I  stole  as  she  sipped  her  lemonade, 

'Till  I  packed  it  away  I  think  with  all 

Of  those  traps  I  lost  on  our  Northern  raid. 


WEST  POINT. 


But  I  never  can  list  to  that  waltz  divine 
With  its  golden  measure  of  joy  and  pain, 
But  it  brings  like  the  flavor  of  some  old  wine 
To  my  heart  the  warmth  of  the  past  again. 
A  short  flirtation  —  that's  all,  you  know  — 
Some  faded  flowers,  —  a  silken  tress  — 
Her  letters  I  burned  up  years  ago 
When  I  heard  from  her  last  in  the  Wilderness. 

I  suppose  could  she  see  I  am  maimed  and  old, 
It  would  soften  the  scorn  that  was  changed  to  hate 
When  I  chose  the  bars  of  the  gray  and  gold, 
And  followed  the  South  to  its  bitter  fate. 
But  here's  to  the  lads  of  the  Northern  blue, 
And  here's  to  the  boys  of  the  Southern  gray, 
And  I  would  that  the  Northern  Star  but  knew 
How  the  Southern  cross  is  borne  to-day  ! 


GENERAL  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA— BERKELEY 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or  on  the 

date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


6CT 1  7  1954 


LD  21-100m-l,'54(1887sl6)476 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

" 


